


Don't Look Back in Anger

by Betty_Baker



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 1990s, AU, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - 1990s, Amsterdam, Army Doctor John Watson, Bisexual Sherlock Holmes, Britpop, Concerts, Doctor John Watson, Drug Use, Europe, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, First Kiss, First Time, Inspired by Music, Light Angst, London, M/M, Music, Paris (City), Pining, Playlist, Prague, Recreational Drug Use, Sexuality Crisis, Touring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-07
Updated: 2019-08-07
Packaged: 2020-08-10 23:54:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 27,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20144095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Betty_Baker/pseuds/Betty_Baker
Summary: It's 1994 and Sherlock is the singer for the up-and-coming Britpop band, Velvet. As the band's official tour doctor, John Watson finds himself mending wounds, treating various ailments, and developing a close relationship with the enigmatic frontman. On their European tour from Paris to Prague, the group dazzle audiences with their fresh sound and take time to enjoy some of the more hedonistic pleasures that come with being a famous rock band. John, reluctantly at first, is along for the ride.





	1. London

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Slip inside the eye of your mind  
Don’t you know you might find  
A Better Place to Play

**Velvet: The next big thing? **

By Simon Renard

April 19th, 1994 

Here in Britain, the lead singer is known simply as Sherlock. The band, Velvet, is simply the next big thing. In fact, Velvet are already huge - their debut album just entered the British charts at No. 1.

Velvet "have it in them to be just about the most extraordinary, intelligent and potentially enormous guitar band this country has seen in a decade," according to Q magazine. Rolling Stone has cited them 'the best new band in Britain' on its November 3rd, 1993, cover - and all before Velvet have even released a single.

For once, the music almost lives up to the hype. Sex, drugs and angst make up Velvet's unique brand of rock 'n' roll. And it makes for a fascinating, almost addictive mixture. They are most often compared to the Smiths, the now-defunct British group whose lead singer Morrissey is already a fan. After attending a Velvet concert, he promptly incorporated one of the band's songs into his own set. Like the Smiths, sexual preferences are blurred in Velvet's lyrics. Comparisons to David Bowie's Ziggy Stardust days are also made. (In fact, we hear Sherlock is quite the modern-day Casanova. He’s been linked to various women _ and _ men, most recently Sally Donovan of the all-female punk group 3 Licks.)

But there are also echoes of other '70s icons such as T. Rex, Cockney Rebel and Mott The Hoople in the Velvet sound. Holmes and his four bandmates, Greg Lestrade, Molly Hooper, Phillip Anderson, and Jim Moriarty have graced the magazine covers in Britain for the past 12 months. 

Their first single, **Ashes,** was voted 1993 Single of the Year by Rolling Stone and New Musical Express. The second single, **Kneel,** won similar honours in Select magazine. Their third release, **Nitrate**, rocketed to the top of the independent single charts in Britain last month.

Readers of Melody Maker, after just two singles, voted Velvet Britain’s brightest hope, ranking them third among live acts and sixth in voting for best band. 

* * *

**April 1994**

“John?” John Watson hears someone calling his name as he turns the corner to head down Middle Street. He’s strolling, really, more to cure boredom than serve a concrete purpose.

“John!”

He turns his head to see the jolly face of Mike Stamford, his old classmate from St. Barts. 

“Mike. How are you?” John’s unprepared to run into an old friend, but considering his proximity to their old stomping ground, he should have known it was a possibility. He’s been back in London for nearly a month, but friendly faces are few and far between. He’s only a few feet away from Mike and uncertain if he’s in the right headspace to be social. _Why should I feel nervous seeing an old friend?_

“Good. Fine! What about yourself?” Mike responds with a smile, “Last I heard, you were in Bosnia getting shot at. What brings you back to London?”

“I got shot,” John says, matter-of-factly. _It’s true after all._

“Blimey. Ah, that’s terrible,” Mike slowly shakes his head, “ I’m sorry, John. So what are you up to now?”

“Well, I’ll look for a job, I suppose. Living in London on an army pension, it’s not… ideal.”

“How odd. I just ran into an old friend who was looking to fill a post. He needs a doctor, or rather, he knows some people who do.”

“Who’s this friend?” John asks, intrigued.

“Mycroft Holmes. He… It’s quite unconventional, actually. He’s looking for a doctor to look after a band that’s going on tour. _Velvet,_ quite a big name!”

“Velvet? Never heard of them. Not a lot of time for pop music in Bosnia.”

Mike chuckles. “Well, look right here!” Mike points at the newsstand nearby. “That’s the lead singer!” 

John follows Mike’s finger to the cover of **Melody Maker**. On the cover, there’s a strange-looking guy, unconventionally attractive in that way that’s trendy - _heroin chic, _as they say_._ Too thin. Looks like he’s trying a bit too hard to be cool.

“Hmm, why would a band need a doctor? Is that… a thing?” John supposes it must be. He can’t even imagine what the Rolling Stone’s doctor would have dealt with in their heyday.

“I’m not sure. Not really something I know much about. In fact, I’m teaching these days. At Barts. And yes, I’ve gotten fat!”

John smiles. “Mike, you’re not -”

“Not another word. I know I have!” Mike laughs cheerfully. “Nevertheless, you should talk to this bloke. It could be interesting, you know, financially speaking. I’ll give you his number.”

“Ok, ta. Not sure if that’s really up my alley, but thanks.” John puts the number in his back pocket, bids farewell to Mike, and makes his way toward Barbican station.

* * *

Over the next few days, John doesn’t give the job prospect much thought - _it’s ludicrous, after all._ Then, on Thursday night as he’s taking off his jeans, he notices the small card in his back pocket.

“Oh, right,” He lets his mind wander. _What would it be like to be a doctor for a band?_ _What does that entail?_ He does need money, and he’ll have to find a job soon, but this is not what he had in mind. _I suppose I’ve nothing to lose, giving the man a call?_ John clears his throat and picks up the phone without allowing himself to reflect too hard. 

“Mycroft Holmes,” the voice on the line responds.

“Yes,” John coughs, “this is John Watson. Doctor John Watson. I’m friends with Mike Stamford.” The line is silent and John adds, “He said you might be looking for a doctor?”

“Yes. Well, not for me, for my… client. As Mike may have explained, I manage a band that’s embarking on a European tour. We’ll need a doctor who’s available to follow them over the course of six weeks. Are you available?”

“Wait. Don’t you want to… I don’t know, ask me some questions or something? You don’t know anything about me, I could be -” 

“I’ve already done my research, Doctor Watson,” Mycroft interrupts, “Mike told me about bumping into you, and I’ve already looked into your qualifications.”

“Okay. Well, alright then.”

“We’ll need to meet. Tomorrow.” Mycroft says with finality.

John pulls the phone away from his face, looking at the receiver in confusion. “I’m… I’m not even sure I’m interested, yet.”

“Well, you should be. I’m - we’re prepared to pay a lot of money.”

“I’m listening.”

“9 pm. There’s a little cafe by 221 Baker Street. See you then, John.” And with that, Mycroft hangs up, leaving John speechless, stood with the phone to his ear well after the other man hangs up. _So I’m just going to meet a stranger at night, on a street I’ve never been to? This is madness. _

John looks around at his sparse bedsit and says aloud, “Why the hell not?”

* * *

At 9 pm the following evening, John arrives at the cafe on Baker Street, called _Speedy’s_, apparently. There are no lights on inside, and he checks his watch against the hours on the door. At that moment, an ominous black limousine pulls up to the curb and the back window rolls down. There’s a rather fat man who appears to be in his early forties looking smugly out the window.

“Get in.”

“Mycroft Holmes?” 

“Yes. Get in.”

“What? The cafe is closed. What are we doing?”

“Yes, I know, does it look like I frequent cafés?”

“I don’t think you want me to answer that.”

“Oh, do get in. Please. We’re not going anywhere. I just want to have a word before I take you to meet the band.”

John hesitates, looking around him. _For what?_ _Someone to save him or reassure him? _The door opens, and against his better judgement, he gets in.

“Does this have to be so mysterious? We’re talking about an actual job, right? This is all above board?”

“Yes, but I just thought you should be well-informed before you meet my… client. What I’m looking for is a doctor who’s prepared for anything… or maybe nothing at all.”

“More mystery.”

“Yes, well. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you how musicians are, particularly, those on the rise of fame. There are often bad decisions made, the kind that -”

“Drugs. Do you mean drugs? Why don’t you just come out and say it?”

“Not just drugs, Doctor Watson, though there’s sure to be some of that. Injuries, accidents, too much drinking, other types of bodily abuse, inadvisable… sexual contact. You would need to be prepared for anything. ”

“So worst-case scenario: I’d be dealing with STIs and overdoses. Best case scenario: I’d be handing out condoms to the band and maybe administering an IV drip in the case of a rough night out?”

Mycroft laughs, “You’ll be lucky indeed if the latter is the case, but as I said, you would need to be prepared for anything. Oh, and the bassist, Greg, is diabetic.”

John thinks about this for a moment. This could be intense, a wild ride, potentially.

“Okay. Are we going to meet them, then?” 

* * *

Mycroft uses his key to open the door to 221B, and just as they enter, an older woman walks out of the downstairs flat. 

“Mycroft! They’re rehearsing! Isn’t it lovely? You’re not here to disturb them? I know how your presence can -” 

“Mrs Hudson, I wouldn’t dream of it. I’m just here with Velvet’s tour doctor, Doctor John Watson.”

“I’m not… A pleasure to meet you,” John extends his hand to the kindly woman.

“Mrs Hudson. I’m Sherlock’s landlady,” she says and shakes the hand offered to her.

Mrs Hudson walks out with the full bin liner she had sat down, and John follows Mycroft up the stairs. “Who is Sherlock?”

Mycroft chuckles, “The singer. We don’t exactly… get on.”

As they step through the door, John notices that there are quite a lot of people there. It looks and sounds more like an intimate concert than a rehearsal. The band is mid-song - an upbeat pop tune - and the crowd applauds when the song ends. The lead singer, whom John immediately recognizes from **Melody Maker**, walks over to the two men. A slight sheen of sweat glosses his skin, a few damp unruly curls on his forehead.

“Mycroft,” the singer says with a sneer.

“Sherlock. This is Doctor John Watson. He’ll be accompanying you on tour.”

“I haven’t said…! ”

“Bosnia or Croatia?”

“Sorry?”

“Bosnia or Croatia?”

“How did you know? Did Mycroft tell you?” John looks over to Mycroft.

“No. You’re a doctor looking for a job. The way you hold yourself and your short-cropped hair indicate military. Your socks, traditional Yugoslavian knit. So, Bosnia or Croatia?”

“Bosnia.” John stares at Sherlock with a furrowed brow.

“Doctor Watson, have a seat. Mycroft, weren’t you just... leaving?” Without waiting for Mycroft to answer, Sherlock pushes him through the door. 

“Go on, Doctor Watson. Have a seat.”

“John. You can call me John. How did you know all that about me?”

“I observe and make deductions.”

“Really? Mycroft didn’t brief you?”

“No.” Sherlock looks John square in the eyes.

“That’s... brilliant.”

Sherlock smiles, “No, I just know how to read people. Now, if you’ll have a seat. We’ve only one more song.”

John finds a spot on the floor amongst the small crowd. After a moment’s pause, the girl in the band starts on the piano, a deliberate melody, reminiscent of a tune he’d heard before - _The Beatles?_ Seconds later, a wiry man on guitar joins in, then a small dark-haired drummer, beating more robustly than seems possible for his small frame. A silver-haired man in his late thirties joins in on bass, then Sherlock’s gravely, yet modulated voice:

_Slip inside the eye of your mind_

_Don't you know you might find_

_A better place to play_

Sherlock’s eyes are closed, and he’s nearly motionless, all his energy focused on the words coming out of his mouth.

_You said that you'd never been_

_But all the things that you've seen_

_Will slowly fade away_

John recognises something mournful in this tune, something that stirs up emotions attached to love affairs gone awry, and for him, the spoils of war. 

_So I start a revolution from my bed_

_'Cause you said the brains I had went to my head._

_Step outside, summertime's in bloom_

Every set of eyes in the room are fixed on Sherlock, John’s included. If he’s ever questioned whether music can truly be hypnotic…

_Stand up beside the fireplace_

_Take that look from off your face_

_You ain't ever gonna burn my heart out_

The arrangement is simple, yet so powerful. John has to resist the urge to reach out and grab the hand of the pretty girl beside him. _That would be too weird._ Just as he decides against it, her hand joins his. He looks over and sees that tears are welling up in her eyes. She whispers, “Isn’t it just so…painful?”

_And so Sally can wait, she knows it's too late as we're walking on by_

_Her soul slides away, but don't look back in anger, I heard you say_

John’s realizes he’s staring at Sherlock’s mouth as he articulates each word, but he finds it impossible to divert his attention. The lyrics, the melody, his voice; it’s mesmerizing, almost too much. Surely he’s witnessing history, or at least the making of a future number one hit.

_Take me to the place where you go_

_Where nobody knows if it's night or day_

_But please don't put your life in the hands_

_Of a Rock n Roll band_

_Who'll throw it all away_

_I'm gonna start a revolution from my bed_

_'Cause you said the brains I had went to my head_

Suddenly, John’s gaze is returned. Sherlock’s eyes are on him, looking straight through to his soul. 

_Step outside 'cause summertime's in bloom_

_Stand up beside the fireplace_

_Take that look from off your face_

_'Cause you ain't ever gonna burn my heart out_

_So Sally can wait, she knows it's too late as she's walking on by_

_My soul slides away, but don't look back in anger I heard you say_

John finally looks away and withdraws his hand from the girl’s. _Damn this song. Damn this._ It’s too much for him after a month of sensory deprivation. John feels his eyes get misty. _No, no, no, Watson. You’re not going to cry over a bloody song!_

_So Sally can wait, she knows it's too late as we're walking on by_

_Her soul slides away, but don't look back in anger, I heard you say_

_So Sally can wait, she knows it's too late as we're walking on by_

_My soul slides away, but don't look back in anger, don't look back in anger, I heard you say_

_‘Least not today_

Total silence. Half the audience is staring at Sherlock, the rest looking around at each other, eyes wide.

“That was bloody brilliant!” The embarrassing exclamation is out of John’s mouth before he even realizes it. 

His words seemed to break the trance; cheering, applause. The girl next to him whistles enthusiastically. _It’s not just me, then. Good. Thank God._

Sherlock smiles at the small crowd and walks away, out of sight. The rest of the band put away their instruments and disappear to talk to their friends. People begin to shuffle around. The girl leans over, “Well, that was amazing!”

Suddenly there’s a hand on John’s shoulder. He looks up to see Sherlock.

“Sherlock, that was…brilliant.”

“So you said,” Sherlock smirks.

“I did. That was…” John clears his throat, “embarrassing.”

“Oh, I don’t mind. Shall we go discuss business?”

John takes Sherlock’s extended hand which leverages him up to his feet. He wants to kick himself for feeling special to have this man’s attention on him. _John Watson does not get starstruck, even if that was the most amazing performance I’ve ever seen. _He follows Sherlock into the kitchen.

“John. Thank you for coming. To be honest, I wasn’t very keen on the idea of having a doctor accompany us on tour, but Mycroft insists. And, well, if that’s going to happen, I think you would be acceptable.”

“Acceptable, well that’s...”

“I mean, I would like it very much. You being an army doctor. I’m sure you’re prepared for the worst - not that I expect any violent mishaps on this tour. Maybe some minor injuries. Jim does like an occasional row. And of course, your being a fan can only be a bonus.” 

“Fan? Well, I suppose -”

“Honestly, I don’t know what Mycroft has told you, but it will likely be an uncomplicated job. We’re all very healthy. I mean, Greg is ancient and if he continues drinking the way does with his diabetes, there might be a bit of a problem. But the rest of us? _Fit. As. Fiddles._”

“Well, I’ll have to think about it.” He means it. This isn’t a decision to be made in haste. 

“That’s fine. Enjoy the party.” Sherlock looks between the girl and John and winks before he abruptly walks away.

“Right,” This could turn out to be the most eventful night John has had in a while. In fact, it already has been.

* * *

“So, I’ve never seen you here before.” The girl from earlier says to John, who’s leaning up against the fridge in the cramped kitchen of 221B. John imagines Sherlock could surely afford something a little more spacious with his rising fame. Maybe the advances have not yet come through?

“No. No, first time.”

“So how do you know Sherlock?”

“Erm, I don’t really.” John opens the fridge and grabs a Stella. “Want one?”

“I’ve got a rum and coke, thanks.” 

“Right. So, what’s your name?”

“Sarah.” She says with…coyness? “Fancy a fag?”

“Oh, I don’t…,” John suddenly realises he could be missing an opportunity, “Sure. Sure. Yes! _Dying_ for one.” John looks at Sarah’s face and smiles. She’s quite pretty, even if the piercings and moody makeup are not what he’s used to. This could be an interesting turn of events. _Yes, why not?_

“Come on, then.” Sarah walks through the kitchen and out the front door.

“Where are we going?”

“The roof.”

There’s a small ladder in the hallway that leads to a landing with a small door. Sarah pushes out, and suddenly they’re looking out over the London skyline.

“Gorgeous,” John says, looking up.

“Thank you,” Sarah says, snickering.

John smiles. The air is cool, humid, and not quite clean. It’s so distinctly springtime London. He’s missed the vibrant, dirty city. _It’s quite disorienting. _ He had known there was a whole world was missing out on; people and places that he didn’t even know existed, but not for a moment did he think he’d be in the thick of it tonight. The possibility of getting to know someone in this strange, exciting world was invigorating; a stark contrast to the trivialities he had recently suffered through. He was chuffed, and maybe even a bit drunk. Sitting down next to Sarah, he takes the lit Dunhill from her fingers.

“So what _are_ you doing here?”

John chuckles. “I don’t know. I really, really don’t know. How about you?”

Sarah takes a slow drag from the fag, “Friends with Molly, and the rest of the band, I suppose. Molly’s the pianist. But she plays every instrument you can imagine.”

“Well, I’ll be honest with you. I’m here as the potential tour doctor for the band. Their manager would like me to accompany them on tour.”

“Mycroft? Scary, isn’t he? So, you’re a doctor. Well, I suppose that could be a good idea, you know, considering Sherlock’s latest…issues. Actually, I guess you don’t know.”

“Issues?” John asks nervously.

Sarah looks hesitant to say anymore. After a moment, she sighs, “Well, he’s seeing this girl called Sally, and they get into all sorts of trouble together. He’s even been arrested.”

“Arrested for what?” John asks with a bit of alarm.

“Just public intoxication.”

“Oh, that’s all, is it?” John doesn’t see how the _just_ was appropriate.

“Yeah, well, she’s absolutely mad. She’s in a band herself. Punk Rock and she lives up to the name. She’s even given Sherlock a bloody lip because she thought he was flirting with Molly. She’s always strung out and sometimes he goes along for the ride. She’ll be the death of him if he’s not careful.”

“Right.” John is having serious second thoughts about the job offer. Light substance abuse and diabetic episodes are one thing, crazy girlfriends and getting arrested for public intoxication are quite another.

They sit in silence for a few minutes.

“Fancy a snog?”

“Definitely.” John laughs incredulously, then leans in, letting their lips meet. _This is nice. Some human contact. _Oh, how he had missed being close like this with another person.

After a few minutes of slightly drunken snogging, John is keen to take it a bit further. They’re alone after all, and what’s this night for if not forgetting his mundane existence? John reaches for Sarah’s denim jacket but stops with a start when a frightened looking bloke bursts through the door.

“Sherlock won’t wake up!” There’s a look of sheer terror on his pale face.

“What?! What do you mean?” John, feeling quite confused at the moment, eventually breaks away from Sarah.

“He won’t wake up! Sally showed up and they went to the bedroom. A few minutes later, she came out shouting that Sherlock had blacked out. No one knows what to do. Sally won’t let us call an ambulance. I heard you talking to Sherlock earlier - you’re a doctor, right?”

“Well, yes...but we should definitely call an ambulance!” John scrambles to his feet.

“Just come look at him, will you? Please!” 

John swiftly follows him back downstairs to the flat, Sarah trailing behind him. 

“Where is he?” John suddenly feels calm and in control, the soldier in him taking over.

“In here!” The young man points to the bedroom where Sherlock is sprawled out on the floor, with the bassist crouching over him, slapping his face repeatedly, calling his name. John takes a quick look around and notices a woman huddled in the corner. 

“Who are you?” The silver-haired bassist asks, looking up at John.

“John Watson. Let me take a look. I’m a doctor. What did he take?”

“I don’t know! Sally?” Greg shouts and looks toward the woman crouched in the corner.

“I don’t know, Greg,” She looks in another world, staring straight ahead, glassy-eyed and emotionless. She has obviously taken her fair share of whatever was going round.

“I need to know what he took if I’m going to help him! Sally, tell me what he’s taken.” John says, trying to keep his voice calm, adrenaline levels rising.

“Rohypnol,” Sally mutters and looks away.

“Jesus! Ok, give me space. How much did he have? Anything else?”

“I don’t know,” Sally said evenly, almost distractedly. “Just beer, I think.”

“Sherlock?” John was on his knees, checking Sherlock’s vital signs. His skin was cool and moist to the touch, his breathing slow and laboured. Checking his pulse..._slow and erratic_. 

“Ok, Sherlock. Let’s get up. Help me out here!” John says, looking to Greg. “We need to try to walk him about.”

The two hoist Sherlock up, but he’s dead weight.

“Ok, we’re going to need to get him to the shower.” They drag Sherlock into the bathroom, and John notices that the party has come to a stand-still. Everyone is watching. The upbeat, energetic music making the scene almost surreal. 

“Take his legs.” John grabs Sherlock under the arms, while Greg lifts his bottom half into the tub. John turns on the cold tap quickly. Sally watches from the doorway, silent.

“Sherlock? Sherlock, are you with us?” No response. 

“SHERLOCK!” Greg shouts, then slaps Sherlock twice, quite forcefully, on the cheek. Sherlock is still unresponsive.

“Get some ice,” John demands. 

“What?” Greg looks at him, confused.

“Get me some bloody ice!”

John slaps Sherlock this time, feeling quite sober now, and Greg walks in with a bowl of ice soon after.

“Ok, listen to me, Sally. I need you to unzip his trousers and put all the ice down his pants.”

“What?!”

“Just do it! Please! Make sure the ice makes direct contact with his testicles.” 

Sally gives John an uncertain look, then unbuttons and unzips Sherlock’s jeans. 

“Dump the ice in his pants. Now!”

Sally hesitantly does as she’s told, and John leans over the pale, limp man in the tub. “Sherlock?” He slaps him harder this time. “Sherlock!” 

Abruptly, Sherlock makes an indistinct _“Hmph_” sound. 

“Sherlock?” Then another slap. With that, Sherlock slightly opens his heavy lids to reveal dull, pale eyes.

“Ok, ok. Good. Get up, Sherlock.” The sound of relief is evident in John’s voice. “Greg! Now, let’s walk him.” 

John on one side, Greg on the other, they lift Sherlock out of the tub. He’s able to stand, but only barely.

“Here we go,” John says as he takes the first step forward. 

* * *

A couple of hours have gone by and John, Greg and Molly have managed to keep Sherlock awake. John had pleaded with Sally to stay, but she insisted on leaving with some friends and the remaining bandmates, shrugging and saying “This happens all the time, he’ll be good as new in the morning.” 

Greg and Molly are sitting on either side of Sherlock’s bed, John on the chair opposite.

“What were you thinking?!” Greg breaks the silence they had been sitting in. “You know, Sherlock, I’ve always thought you were the smartest guy I knew. I’m not so sure anymore.”

“Oh, don’t be so dramatic, Greg.” Sherlock scoffs.

“Dramatic! As though overdosing on Rohypnol isn’t dramatic at all!” Molly shouts shrilly. 

“Really, I’m fine now. And I’m not touching that stuff ever again. Promise.”

“What about all the other stuff?” asks Greg.

“None of it. Not the hard stuff.”

“You better not, Sherlock! We’ve got a lot riding on this tour. Don’t go around acting like we’ve already got it in the bag, because we haven’t!” Greg says, exasperated.

“You better start practising in that case, Greg,” Sherlock smirks.

“Piss off. Obviously you’re back to your normal, insufferable self. I’m gone.” Greg gets up to leave. Molly leans over and kisses Sherlock on the cheek before she catches up. John follows her out of the room to the front door.

“John, thank you. Thank God you were here. I know he doesn’t think it’s a big deal, but I happen to think it was.” sighs Greg, obviously exhausted.

“What’s this all about? Does this really happen often?”

“When she’s around,” Molly says scornfully, eyes narrowed. 

“Right.” John looks back toward Sherlock’s room.

“Yeah...truth be told, none of us like her. Sally. She’s ruining him. He’s always dabbled a bit, but when she’s around, he’s out of control. They’re always fighting. Either that or they’re manic. I don’t understand what he sees in her.” Greg shakes his head.

“Drugs?”

“That’s likely part of it. They enable each other.” Greg responds.

“I’ve never seen him like this. It’s such a shame he can’t just be with someone who’s kind, not some manipulative megalomaniac ,” Molly mutters.

Greg gives Molly a sympathetic nod, grabs his coat, then pauses. “Ok then. You leaving too, John?”

John considers for a moment, “No, I would feel better if I stayed a little while. You know, just to make sure he’s alright.”

“John, I appreciate it, but you don’t have to. You barely know him. I’ll stay if you think he needs company.”

“Yes, well. I’ll stay a while anyway. If only for my peace of mind. Doctor, remember?”

“Ok.” Greg sighs. “Take care, John. And thanks again for…well, you know.”

“Yes, thank you.” Molly smiles gratefully, giving John a warm hug.

“It’s…fine.” John forces a smile and watches the two musicians walk down the stairs.

_So here I am, alone with a mad junkie in his flat. _

John walks back to the bedroom. “Sherlock? How are you feeling?” 

“Fine. Thank you, John.” Sherlock slowly sips the water Greg had brought him earlier, “As much as it pains me to say, maybe my brother has a point. Maybe we do need a tour doctor.”

“Brother? _Mycroft _is your brother?”

Sherlock adopts a slight frown, “Hmmm, yes. Unfortunately.”

“I see. That explains his concern.” It’s making a bit more sense to John now. “You know, you wouldn’t need a doctor if you didn’t use this shite.”

“But I do - I mean I have - from time to time. This was the last time, though! I hope it will be, anyway. I can’t always trust myself. The urge is overwhelming sometimes.”

“It might help to identify your triggers and avoid them.”

“Well, that shouldn’t be a problem. I’ve only a few, one of which Mycroft will ensure will not distract me during the tour.”

“Sally?”

Sherlock doesn’t answer. Instead, he says, “You seemed to be having fun before the...incident.” Sherlock gestures flippantly toward the bedroom door with his hand.

“Yeah, well, you put a bit of a damper on everything, didn’t you?”

Sherlock sits motionless, looking down at his hands. 

“Will you walk around a bit? I could make some tea. I want to make sure you’re alright before I leave.”

“I’m fine. You can go.” After a moment’s pause, realising John means business, Sherlock stands up, still a bit shaky, and walks across the bedroom. He opens a violin case and takes out the instrument carefully.

“You play the violin?”

“Yes.” He picks up the bow and immediately starts playing a beautiful, albeit melancholy tune.

John sits back down. Like the earlier song that had nearly moved John to tears, this melody is dark and powerful - perhaps even darker. No, this is definitely darker, devoid of any hint of hope the band’s previous pop song had provided.

He watches Sherlock intently, his nimble fingers moving on the strings as though the violin is an extension of his body rather than an independent instrument. He wonders if the music is an expression of some deep sadness within the man himself. 

John feels his stomach sink. _Is it the music, or the man behind it eliciting these visceral responses tonight?_

The tune continues, and John’s hopes for some sort of redeeming happy ending. His hopes are dashed. The song comes to a close with mournful abandonment.

“That was…”

“Depressing? It’s the theme from Schindler’s List.”

“Beautiful.”

A half-smile quickly passes Sherlock’s lips.

“Right, then. You’re full of surprises. First an overdose, now a concerto.” John smirks.

“It’s not a concerto, just a sonata.”

“_Just_ a sonata. Well, it was nice.” John clears his throat and looks away.

“Thank you. As you can see, I’m quite alright. I plan to play for a few hours before attempting sleep.”

John nods, quite reassured that Sherlock will be okay. He walks out of the room to retrieve his jacket.

“John?”

John turns back around to the man now standing a few feet away, looking into his eyes as though searching for the right words to say. “Yeah?”

“Thank you.”

“It was my… ethical responsibility.”

“Still.”

John extends his hand to Sherlock. “Take care of yourself?” Sherlock’s hand is warm and dry, his handshake firm. John notices his long, delicate fingers and the calluses from violin playing.

John drops Sherlock’s hand and grabs his coat, putting it on as he walks down the stairs, out the door, and back onto the streets on London. When he reaches the Melcombe Street intersection a couple of minutes later, there’s an unexpected emotion he’s suddenly aware of. _Excitement? Exhilaration? That’s definitely inappropriate considering someone nearly died. _He continues walking, hoping to find a cab. 

God help him, but he feels alive.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You said that you’ve never been

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're following the accompanying playlist, this chapter begins with Comment te dire adieu by Françoise Hardy
> 
> https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0pI0ojpvcjgBj4n7zRwMIF?si=SWhpXs6cQOGrttQx-hbReQ

**April, 1994**

_ So here I am, on tour with a band. A soon-to-be very famous band, it would seem. What on earth am I doing here? On our way to Paris, at that.  _ John muses to himself as he looks out the window of the tour bus. He’s never been to Paris, and he hopes he’ll get to see a bit of the city. They’re about an hour away from their destination, and a day away from the band’s first gig of the tour. It’s early morning and everyone’s sleeping, save the driver and John himself. 

After a while of only the sound of the road and his own thoughts, John notices someone stirring.

“Morning, John,” yawns Molly, handing him a cup of tea.

“Ah, thanks, Molly. So, are you excited? About the tour?”

“Nervous. How about you?”

“Nervous as well, to be honest. I don’t really know what to expect from all this.  _ Tour Doctor _ ,” John laughs, “At the moment, I’m just chuffed to see Paris. I’ve never been before.” John says, looking wistfully out the window onto the grey highway at all the small French cars speeding by.

“Well, Greg’s pretty good about checking his insulin levels, and Sherlock…I think he’s all right. I mean, I don’t think you need to worry about a repeat of a few weeks ago.”

“I hope you’re right. Otherwise, I’ve got my work cut out for me.”

* * *

The group is quite bleary as they wait for their tour manager, Ricky, to give them the keys to their rooms. John is frankly relieved that Mycroft has entrusted someone else with this role. His dealings with the smug, posh man over the last couple of weeks had been unpleasant, at best. Mycroft was always demanding his attention at the most inopportune times and in increasingly dramatic fashions. He’d been particularly surprised when he had shown up to his date with Sarah, the girl from the rehearsal. There he’d been, sat next to them at _ Pizza Express, _ demanding he leave with him immediately to sort out the band’s departure.  _ Doubt I’ll see her again,  _ John muses.

When John arrives in his room - bigger than expected, and tastefully furnished - he settles in for a quick kip. When he wakes up about an hour later, mostly refreshed, he heads to Ricky’s room, still unsure of what’s expected of him today.

“Ah, John! Yes, you’re free to explore. In fact, the band left a few minutes ago to do just that. Of course, you have your pager if you’re needed.”

When John reaches the lobby, he’s surprised to see the whole group standing in a circle, looking mostly revived, apparently discussing their plans for the day.

“I want to see  _ La Tour Eiffel _ !” exclaims Molly.

“Boring.” Sherlock rolls his eyes.

“Hey, now. The Eiffel Tower is not boring!” protests Greg. “Of course, you’ve probably visited Paris with your posh boarding school, but we’re not all that lucky.”

“I’ll go with you, Molly.” John hears the small drummer with beady eyes speak up for the first time.  _ Jim _ , he remembers, as he wonders to himself where his accent’s from.  _ American? _

“I’d love to see the Eiffel Tower. I’d love to see some historic landmarks myself!”  _ Ah, Irish _ , thinks John.

“I’ll come too. I brought a camcorder!” interrupts the guitarist. Like Jim, John hasn’t really become acquainted with Philip Anderson and isn’t exactly keen to get to know him either. He has a nervous energy that, in truth, puts him off a bit.

Jim shoots Anderson a scathing look, but the other man either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care.

“John. You’ll come with Greg and me.” Sherlock declares without taking his eyes off the map.

“Well, actually, I thought I’d go out on my own a bit.” 

“Nonsense. Greg and I are going to walk the entire city. You won’t miss a thing.”

“The  _ entire _ city?” Greg asks, concern evident in his voice.

“Yes, Greg. Some vigorous exercise will be good for your condition, don’t you think? It will also help you recover from the hangover you’re so obviously suffering from today.” Sherlock quips, eyes sharply turning to Greg.

“Alright then, let’s go.  _ Twat _ !” Greg scoffs playfully. 

John considers his options for a moment. He wants to see the Eiffel Tower, but as lovely as Molly is, Anderson and Jim are another story. Despite resenting being told what to do, he decides to accompany Greg and Sherlock in the hopes of seeing as much as possible. It will be better than wandering around aimlessly as he had planned.

“Ok. Right. Lead the way.”

* * *

“The Jardin de Luxemburg was originally owned by the Duke of Luxembourg, hence the name, but in 1612 Marie de' Medici purchased the land after her husband, King Henry IV was murdered. A really interesting murder, actually. He was stabbed to death by a Catholic fanatic - though Henry himself had converted to Catholicism in order to take the throne.”

“Bloody Hell,” Greg says, gruffly. “That’s dark.”

John smiles, looking at Sherlock incredulously. “How do you know all this?”

“Well, despite what my _ friends  _ say _ ,  _ it’s not due to my posh boarding school. My maternal grandmother was French. I visited her in the summers growing up and we would walk the city. She was like a talking encyclopedia. Some of my fondest memories are here with her.”

“A talking encyclopedia? Sounds familiar.” Greg laughs. “Listen boys, I’ve had enough of a history lesson for today. I saw a little French dive bar over there. Might check it out.” 

“Don’t be so predictable, Greg. John, shall we continue?”

“How about we sit for a minute, eh?”

John takes a seat on one of the nearest benches. After a moment, Sherlock follows and sits next to him. “So, you speak French?” John asks, not looking away from the people picnicking and laid out on the green in front of them.

“I’m full of surprises, John.” Sherlock meets his eyes then smirks, turning up his coat collar against the Spring chill.

John laughs,“That’s what I’m afraid of.”

“If you’re referring to what happened back in London, I can assure you that it won’t be a problem.”

John just nods his head and looks back to the crowd of people, “Right, well. I think I’m going to head back. Is there a metro 'round here?”

“Yes, right back on the main road. Take the 4 to Barbes Rochechouart, then the 2 to Place de Clichy.” 

“Cheers. See you later?”

“Not likely, I need to rest,” Sherlock responds flatly.

“Okay.” John stands to walk toward the metro, taking in the beautiful gardens and playing children as he goes. The newsstand next to the Metro station catches his attention. He can’t read French, but maybe there’s an English language section - something to keep him occupied tonight, barring any unanticipated medical issues. Looking through the glossy covers, he notices Sherlock’s image staring back at him- posed on a bar stool, one hand in his hair, the other holding a fag. There’s an enigmatic expression on his face that John has seen before. It’s not the issue of  **Melody Maker** Mike had pointed out a few weeks ago - this one was in French. 

“Are you following me?” He smiles and shakes his head, turning to descend into the metro without making a purchase.

* * *

As the sun sets, John decides to stroll out for a kebab rather than order in room service or join Greg and Molly at the hotel bar. On his way back in, he notices soft violin music coming from the room a few doors down.  _ Sherlock _ , he thinks. The air is slow and melancholy, but slightly out of tune. It reminds him of the music Sherlock played that night back in London, just more relaxed - playing to himself rather than performing for an audience - me, in this case. He lingers for a moment, just taking in the sound, then makes his way toward his door.

* * *

The following evening, John is backstage at the Bataclan with Ricky while the band do a soundcheck on stage. 

“So, how long have you been working with Velvet?” John asks, making small talk.

“Oh, about 2 days.” Ricky laughs. “I’m an old friend of Mycroft.”

“Right.  _ Mycroft _ . He hired me too. Not an old friend, though. Actually, not sure why he thought I was the man for this job. What do you reckon, am I in for a difficult few weeks?”

Ricky turns to look at John, “To be honest, I don’t think so. I presume it’s more of a precaution. Of course, I know all about Sherlock’s…afflictions, but part of my job is to make sure Sally doesn’t make an appearance during the tour. If I’m successful, I think you’ll be alright. Greg, however…he really needs to take his condition more seriously.”

“I heard there was some good French food and wine back here!” shouts Greg as if on cue as the band walk into the backstage area.

“Really, Greg? I think you should avoid wine and foie gras.” Sherlock quips.

“Ah, shut it, you!” Greg replies, laughing, as he heads toward the service table.

John looks over to Ricky, chuckling.

“Told ya.” Rick laughs back.

* * *

That night, John watches the show from the wing.  _ They’re even more bloody amazing than back in London _ . The acoustics in the larger venue give their music a haunting quality, and the band really know how to play off the cheering audience, particularly Sherlock. For someone who makes it very clear that he’s often  _ bored _ , on stage he’s the embodiment of charisma and charm. He sings and moves like he’s sharing his deepest secrets with close friends rather than thousands of strangers. His tight jeans and black fitted t-shirt are a sharp contrast to the others’ more grunge-influenced look, and John muses to himself that Sherlock’s lithe, darkly-clad figure wouldn’t look out of place in a 70’s punk band - minus the pins and studs, of course. The music, however, is distinctly modern - moody, yet polished.

After the show, everyone is ushered off to another part of town for an afterparty thrown by The Igloos, the opening band. The club is underground, almost cave-like and is small and smoky. John feels quite alone and is tempted to drink himself into feeling less out-of-place. He wonders if the barman speaks English. 

“What are you having?” says Sherlock out of nowhere, and John feels the other man’s heat on his back and notices a sweet, musky smell. 

“Whiskey?”

“ _ Deux whiskies, s’il vous plait. _ ” Sherlock says to the hip-looking barman.

“Cheers,” John replies as Sherlock hands him the small glass, their fingers brushing lightly.

“Want to go get some fresh air?”

“God, yes.” 

John follows Sherlock up the stone staircase and onto the small street outside the club where Sherlock lights up a Benson. “Would you like one?”

“No thanks, I think I’ve had enough second-hand smoke for a lifetime.”

A lopsided grin appears on Sherlock’s lips. “So, Doctor John Watson. Tell me a bit about yourself.”

“Well, what’s there to know? You already guessed the important stuff.”

“And I’m supposed to believe that your military career is all there is to you?”

“Fair enough. Well, I’ve got a sister, Harry. We don’t talk much.”

“Because of her drug problem?”

“How could you  _ possibly _ know that?”

“The way you took care of me the night I, erm, overdosed. Being a military doctor, I don’t imagine you encountered many drug overdoses with work. It’s obvious someone close to you has had similar… issues. Probably not a parent since you wouldn’t have had the medical knowledge to deal with this type of situation whilst living at home. So, your sister. A recent problem,” Sherlock turns to John expectantly, “Just a guess.”

“That’s… brilliant.”

“So I’m right? Lucky guess, I suppose. Of course, it could have been another sibling or a friend, but I’m guessing you don’t have many of those?”

John scowls up at Sherlock, “You think I seem like someone who doesn’t have any friends then? Right. Nice,” John looks down at his feet.

“John, it’s not that you seem unlikeable, it’s just, well, I recognise your loneliness.” 

The blood rushes to John’s face. “Jesus. Am I that obvious? I guess I am,” John scoffs.

“ Loneliness is and always has been the central and inevitable experience of every man.” 

“Did you just come up with that?” John asks flatly.

“No, Thomas Wolfe did. But more to the point, I see your loneliness because I’m no stranger to the feeling myself.” Sherlock responds, looking ahead at nothing in particular.

John turns to look at him incredulously. “ _ You? _ You’re on the verge of fame. Everyone wants to know you. Speaking of which, why are you out here with me and not mingling with all your admirers?”

Sherlock ponders for a moment before he speaks. “I have fans, but few friends. I love what I do, I love the music, the performance. But fame, fans… it’s all vapid. Unimportant.”

They stand in silence for a minute, John wondering, but not asking how a man with the world at his fingertips could be so pessimistic. Then the silence is broken by shouting coming from downstairs in the club. Sherlock takes off and John follows.

There’s a commotion by the bar. Greg is pushing Jim away from Molly as Anderson wraps his arms around her. “What’s going on?” Sherlock shouts, taking control of the room as they run through the crowded space toward the bar.

“You fucking twat!” screams Molly between sobs.

“What’s going on?” John asks Greg.

“Jim. He’s pissed. He’s done something to Molly. I didn’t see, but --”

“He grabbed my tits and stuck his fucking tongue down my throat, is what he did!”

“Is that true, Jim?” Greg grabs Jim by his flannel shirt and shoves him back against the bar.

“I…she was flirting with me. I didn’t do…anything she didn’t want!” Jim slurs.

Without hesitation, Sherlock walks up to the drunk man, catching his gaze and narrowing his eyes. “You think you can just do what you please to Molly? Is that what you think?!” Then without waiting on his response, Sherlock’s fist collides with Jim’s jaw. Jim gasps, then a painful groan escapes him when Sherlock’s other fist makes contact with his stomach. Sherlock steps back, looking around at the group that has gathered round.

“Get him out of here!” He shouts, rubbing his knuckles. Then there’s the sound of glass shattering, and suddenly, Jim’s holding his broken beer bottle up to Sherlock’s face. There’s a collective gasp of horror.

As Greg attempts to shove Jim away, he slings the bottle in Sherlock’s direction. He’s able to deflect the bottle with his hands, and it crashes to the floor.

“Oh my god, Sherlock! Are you ok?” Molly screams.

Everyone stares. Blood is dripping from Sherlock’s right hand.

“Let me look at that,” John says as he walks over to Sherlock.

“It’s fine.” Sherlock grabs a cocktail napkin and wraps it around his hand. “Get that vile man out of here!”

John looks from Sherlock to Molly, then Greg. “Molly, are you going to be alright?”

“Yeah, I think so,” Molly says, obviously exasperated.

“Ok, Greg. You take Jim, Anderson and I will get Molly back. Sherlock --” but Sherlock isn’t there.

* * *

Back at the hotel, Ricky and Sherlock have been holed up in Ricky’s room for over an hour while Greg, Molly, Anderson, and John are sipping whiskey in Molly’s room. 

“We’ve got to get rid of Jim. This isn’t the first time he’s been inappropriate with Molly, and he’s got quite a reputation for messing with women. I bet that’s what Sherlock and Ricky are discussing right now.” Greg muses.

As if summoned by the mention of his name, Sherlock suddenly walks in. “We’re replacing Jim. That vile buffoon will never be around you again, Molly. Ricky’s talking to him now.”

“But who are we going to find on such short notice? We’ve got a show in Rennes in two days!” Molly says as she tugs at her long hair anxiously.

“It’s already decided. Julien, the drummer for  _ The Igloos _ who opened for us will replace Jim on tour. After that, we’ll see.”

“He’s quite good,” says Anderson, nodding.

“Well, that’s sorted, then.” Greg states with finality. 

John looks up at Sherlock, noticing the blood-soaked flannel around his hand.

“Maybe let me have a look at that now?”

“Fine,” Sherlock responds, diverting his eyes.

“Okay. Come with me. I’ve got my kit in my room.”

Sherlock follows John into his room. “Let’s go to the bathroom - there’s better light and we’ll need to wash that out.” Sherlock nods and walks into the bathroom, sitting down on the toilet seat cover. John unravels the cloth and holds Sherlock’s hand, examining the damage. Thankfully, the broken glass hasn’t done much other than inflict some superficial damage.

“Not too bad. We’ll just wash it out and I’ll put some butterfly stitches on it.”

John holds Sherlock’s hand over the sink and rinses off the traces of blood, gently opening the cut just to make sure there are no shards of glass or debris. Sherlock watches him intently as he works, eyes wide. When he sees that the wound is clean, he pours some rubbing alcohol over it.

“Ahhh!” Sherlock hisses, jerking his hand away.

“Yes, well. I didn’t think I needed to tell you it would hurt.” John smiles and takes a clean flannel to dry Sherlock’s hand before applying the butterfly stitches. “You’ll be fine. Listen, Sherlock...what you did, it was stupid, but Jim deserved it.”

Sherlock gives a grave chuckle. “He deserved much worse than that.”

“Yes, well.” John looks up at Sherlock for a moment, “Right. I guess I’ll be off, then.” 

“Thank you, John.” Emotion flickers momentarily across his eyes.

“Well, that’s what I’m here for, isn’t it?” John smiles lightly.

“Yes, well, thanks for being here.” Sherlock holds John’s gaze intently.

“No worries.” John looks away and turns to head back toward his room, suddenly exhausted.

  
  
  
  
  



	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> But all the things that you've seen  
Slowly fade away

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're listening to the accompanying playlist, this chapter begins with Champagne Supernova by Oasis
> 
> https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0pI0ojpvcjgBj4n7zRwMIF?si=SWhpXs6cQOGrttQx-hbReQ

**April 1994**

John watches the show from the wings. _ The new drummer is quite good. Everything sounds great, actually, but there’s something off. _ Sherlock seems to be lacking his usual charisma. He looks as striking as ever, but somehow even paler than usual. _ I suppose everyone has an off night. Greg as well, it seems, _ John thinks _ . _Like Sherlock, Greg sounds fine but doesn’t appear to be having much fun.

* * *

“John, I think you should check on Greg,” Molly whispers as she approaches John backstage a few minutes after the encore, worry evident on her face.

“What’s wrong?” John frowns.

“I’m not sure, I think it’s something to do with his blood sugar.”

John walks over to Greg, who’s sat on an ancient sofa in the corner. “All right, Greg?”

“Honestly, John, not sure. I’ve just drunk a Coke. We’ll check my blood sugar levels in a few.”

“Ok, well. Just rest here. I could tell you weren’t feeling that great on stage.”

“Great,” Greg scowls, “I’d hoped it hadn’t affected my performance. It wasn’t the best show, was it?” Greg lowers his voice and leans forward, “Sherlock seemed a bit off as well, don’t you think?”

John looks across the room to Sherlock, who’s stood by the drinks table chatting to Julien. “Yeah, noticed that. Do you think he’s all right?”

“I think so. At least, I don’t think he’s been getting high if that’s what you mean.” 

“Right. Good.” John responds as Molly walks over and plops down next to Greg. “Greg, you feeling any better?”

“I think so. We’re giving it a few minutes, then checking my levels.”

“Good. Julien’s doing well, don’t you think?” Molly grins.

Greg looks at Molly with a smile, “He beats that twat Jim by a mile!”

“In more ways than one!” Molly replies.

John pulls up a chair in front of the sofa. “Are you doing ok, Molly?”

“Fine. Really, I’m fine. I’m just glad Jim’s gone. He’s a good drummer, but a confirmed creep. John, maybe you could check on Sherlock. He hasn’t said anything, but I can tell something’s up with him.”

John glances back to look at Sherlock, but he’s no longer there. “Where’s he gone?”

“Slips off sometimes,” Greg chuckles, “I think it’s all part of him creating mystery, the git.”

John’s laugh hides his growing concern.

* * *

Back at the hotel, John makes his rounds to check on everyone - _ this is what a tour doctor should do, right? _After confirming Greg’s glucose levels are back to normal, he heads toward Sherlock’s room and knocks. The door opens, and John is taken aback - Sherlock’s hair is dishevelled, there are dark circles under his eyes, and a patina of sweat coats his face. He looks absolutely awful. “Sherlock. What’s wrong?”

Sherlock tries to focus his eyes for a moment then responds, “Come in,” stepping back and waving his hand towards the room behind him. He walks slowly toward the bed and sits down. John stands a few feet away, looking down at him.

“Are you going to tell me what’s going on? I’m here to help, remember?” John fixes his eyes.

“It seems as though I’m experiencing some mild withdrawal symptoms.” Sherlock sighs.

“From what?!” John snaps.

“Methadone.”

“_ Methadone?! _Sherlock, I thought you were clean?” John replies, trying to keep his voice steady.

“Trying to get there.”

“So you were using heroin?” John frowns and purses his lips.

“Obviously.”

“Jesus, Sherlock!” John takes a breath to calm himself, “Ok, well, did you stop taking the Methadone suddenly?”

“Of course not, I’ve been tapering down slowly. I thought I had the exact schedule down to avoid any withdrawals, but obviously,” Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Even_ I _am wrong sometimes.” 

“You should’ve told me, you shouldn’t be attempting this without a doctor’s supervision.”

“I’m a graduate Chemist, John. I trusted that wouldn’t be necessary.”

“Okay, nevermind. When did you take your last dose? What kind of symptoms have you been experiencing?”

“Two nights ago, and I didn’t feel any adverse effects until last night when I woke up in a cold sweat, heart racing, and quite nauseated. I wasn’t able to sleep through the rest of the night. Today the gastrointestinal issues have mostly cleared up, but I feel anxious. As I’m sure you can see, I’m sweaty and I’m shaking,” Sherlock holds out his shaky hand, “I would really appreciate it if you could give me something to sleep.”

“Ok,” John takes his wrist to check his pulse, “I’m going to give you a Beta Blocker first of all for the physical symptoms of anxiety. You can take them twice a day for a few days; that should help with your heart rate and the shakiness. I’ll also give you a small dose of Ativan to help you relax and hopefully sleep. You’ll need to drink loads of water. I can give you some IV fluids if you haven’t been able to keep down liquids.”

“I’m not sure that will be necessary, but I suppose it couldn’t hurt.”

“Okay. I’ll be right back.”

As John walks back to his room, he realises he’s clenching his fists. _This could be worse, _he thinks_. This could be a lot worse. He’s quit heroin._ _He’s trying to get clean. _He relaxes.

“John! Join me in the bar?” Greg shouts from down the hall as John’s turns his key.

“Really, Greg?!” John looks at him incredulously, “You shouldn’t be drinking right now!”

“Just water, I promise! I’m bored.”

“You bloody musicians and your perpetual boredom. What is it with you?”

“Fine! See you later, Doctor!”

* * *

John returns to Sherlock’s room with the IV kit and medicine. 

“Ok, take these,” he says, handing Sherlock the pills, which he swallows instantly without water. “You really shouldn’t do that if you’re experiencing any stomach issues! Water!”

“Fine.” Sherlock sighs, then chugs the full glass on his bedside locker.

“Give me your arm.” John looks down at Sherlock’s extended arm and notices the scars for the first time. His nose flares and his lips tighten. He takes a deep breath and tries to evoke sympathy rather than anger. “Why anyone with such a charmed life would inject drugs into their veins is beyond my comprehension.” 

“If you can’t understand, you’re very lucky indeed.” 

John’s anger resurfaces momentarily before he looks at Sherlock, who is obviously truly miserable. This softens him a bit. “Try me.”

“I tried heroin for the first time about a year ago, right after I met Sally. I’ve never been able to quiet my mind, all my life. For the first time, I was free from that.”

“Ever think of trying meditation instead?”

Sherlock scoffs in response and they’re both quiet for a while as John starts the drip.

“So...do you miss her?” John breaks the silence as he sits down in the chair by Sherlock’s bed.

“Who?!” Sherlock asks, confused.

“Sally,” John responds, furrowing his brow.

“Oh, _ her _. No, I don’t really miss her.”

“Okay,” John purses his lips, “You know you don’t have to pretend if you do, no judgement here.”

“I _ really _ don’t.”

“You’re not in love with her, then?”

“What does that even mean, _ in love _? It’s just a mess of chemicals that leaves you distracted.”

“I think you’re describing exactly what drugs do.”

Sherlock raises his eyebrows and concedes a smile, “Touché. But_ love _is not really my area. Addiction, however, that is right up my proverbial alley.”

“But Greg said you two were practically inseparable. It’s just the drugs then?”

“No...the drugs are part of it, but I’m addicted to the chaos she brings. Life can be so mundane, John, but Sally is never boring. _ And _ she’s a musical genius. Have you heard her music?”

“Wait, but that I article I read back in London, I think it called you a _modern-day Don Juan._ _A bisexual heartbreaker, _or something. But you’re saying you’re not actually…that?”

“_ A modern-day Casanova _, I believe.”

“So you are?”

“I am _ what _?” An arched eyebrow.

“I don’t know! Forget I asked.” John throws his hands up, exasperated.

“Relationships are not for me if that’s what you mean. But am I attracted to…people? I _ am _human, John.”

“_ People. _ So the bisexual bit, that’s accurate?” Sherlock glares at John from his bed.

“Which is fine.” John clears his throat.

“I know it’s fine.” Sherlock quips back.

“Right, I just mean…it’s just strange - you’re so different from what the press would have the world believe.”

“Oh, you know how the media is. Anything to create intrigue, sell a story.”

“So you are, then? Bisexual, that is.” John licks his lips.

Sherlock sighs and rolls his eyes, “I don’t know why everyone is so keen to have a label for everything, but yes, I’ve found myself attracted to various people of different genders. I have a theory that everyone is _bisexual - _if that’s the term we’re using - that it’s quite possible for nearly anyone to be attracted to another person regardless of gender. It’s insignificant, really. It’s almost a minor detail when looking at the whole picture.”

“Oh, really?” John raises his eyebrow and chuckles, “Just a minor detail?” 

“I think it is,” Sherlock says dismissively, “I just think most people are too closed-minded to accept that.”

“Well, I’ve never really given it much thought. My sister’s gay, I’m not. It’s always seemed kind of black and white,” John ponders silently for a moment. “So you would be just as likely to fall in love with a man as a woman?”

Sherlock laughs, “We’re not talking about love, John.”

“Right.” John clears his throat and looks down at his hands.

“Problem?”

“No. No! It’s fine,” John looks at Sherlock reassuringly, “It’s all fine. Just talking. How are you feeling?”

“A bit more human.”

“_ Human _? You?”

Sherlock looks up at John indignantly but smiles when he sees the playfulness in John’s expression. “So what about your sister then, is she in London?” Sherlock asks as John begins to remove the spent drip.

“Her name’s Harry, short for Harriet. She’s in New Zealand with her girlfriend. Clara’s from there.”

“I would ask if you’ve visited, but it’s obvious you haven’t.”

“How… how on earth is that obvious?” John scoffs.

“You’ve taken care of her during a recent drug problem, not in New Zealand, I assume. She’ll have gone there for a fresh start. Recently. That, and in Paris, you mentioned you don’t talk much.”

“Well, it is what it is. We’re fine at the moment.”

They don’t speak any more while John packs up the kit, but just as John’s zipping up his case Sherlock asks, “Want to watch some bad Dutch telly?”

John mulls it over second, then says, “Okay. Why not?” He pours himself a glass of water at the bar and sits down on the bed next to Sherlock who’s reclining on the orange and brown 1980s duvet, his head resting on two pillows. The TV’s tuned into what appears to be an over-dramatic murder mystery. 

They’re quiet for a while, then John asks, “So, what’s this about, anyway?”

Sherlock looks over at him dubiously, “You’ve been watching this for a quarter of an hour and don’t understand a thing?” John makes eye contact and shrugs. Sherlock frowns, then they both burst into laughter. 

“It doesn’t matter. The husband did it. It’s always the husband.” Sherlock chuckles, then yawns.

John tries to follow the rest of the episode. He’s not sure he’s understood, but it seems as though Sherlock was right. “Looks like the husband did do it?” He asks as he looks over to Sherlock, but sees that the other man is dead to the world. _ Looks like the Ativan did its job, _John thinks.

Sans his perpetual scowl, John notes how young and innocent Sherlock appears. His chest tightens. For whatever reason, this man’s well-being has become important to him. He observes Sherlock for another moment - his colour’s slightly better and he’s breathing rhythmically. He gently touches his wrist to check his pulse - _ slower _ \- and decides he’s okay to leave and let his friend get some much-needed sleep. 


	4. Amsterdam

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So I start a revolution from my bed  
Cause you said the brains I had went to my head  
Step outside 'cause summertime’s in bloom

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're listening to the accompanying playlist, this chapter begins with Cannonball by The Breeders
> 
> https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0pI0ojpvcjgBj4n7zRwMIF?si=iDcjVguhTnqurPVmp217RA

**May 1994**

It’s early evening but no jackets are required as the group walks along the streets of Amsterdam. The smell of flowers is in the air, and there’s a festive atmosphere amongst the masses. With no show today, the band have the day to recuperate after nearly a week of consecutive performances. Greg, Molly, and Anderson spent the day exploring, while Sherlock and Julien caught  _ The Breeders _ at a nearby music festival. John spent the day by himself, walking along the canals, enjoying his anonymity. Now they’re all together, after dinner at an Indonesian restaurant Molly had suggested. They’ve had a quiet evening free from the attention of strangers, and John wonders if his friends haven’t actually been recognized or if the Dutch are too polite to draw attention to them.

“So, what now?” Molly looks around at the others. With her fresh face, her hair pulled back, and her simple babydoll dress, she looks more like a seventeen-year-old than her actual age of twenty-seven. 

“I was thinking about checking out the red light district…you know, there are a lot of historic buildings there.” Anderson responds seriously.

“Right, I’m sure that’s what you’re interested in, Anderson,” Greg quips. “Actually, I’ve got a treat for us tonight, kids.”

“Oh, is it candy?!” Molly asks mockingly.

“Er, sort of. I picked up some Ecstasy earlier. A legitimate source, might I add.” Greg clears his throat, “I thought it might be fun to take a bit and go dancing!” Greg looks from face to face, “Who’s in?”

“Oh! Nice one!” Anderson holds out his hand.

“ _ Allez! Pourquoi pas _ ?” Julien responds with a slight smile.

“Oi! Julien! English, please.” Greg shouts with phoney annoyance.

“He said,  _ why not _ ?” Sherlock answers, “And I agree.” He grins.

“Sherlock, a word?” John grabs Sherlock’s elbow and pulls him aside. “Do you really think that’s a good idea? I mean, I know it’s not an opiate, but you’ve just gotten clean.”

“John, I’m hardly addicted to  Methylenedioxymethamphetamine . Have you tried it?”

“No, I haven’t. But-”

“It just induces slight euphoria - it makes dancing and everything feel…nicer.”

“Yes, I know what it does,” sighs John. “You go ahead then - I best not.”

Greg overhears John and turns around to face them, “Go on, John! A little bit won’t hurt. It’s safer than drinking!”

“Yes, well, It probably is for you!” John laughs, “Maybe.”

“Molly?” Greg asks.

“I will if John does!” she giggles.

John looks around the group, who are now huddled in a circle, “Dammit. Okay.”

  
  


* * *

An hour or so later at a nearby club, Molly and Greg are dancing frenetically while John sits with Anderson, contemplating the amount of sweat Greg must be producing in his tight leather trousers. He chuckles and shakes his head, noticing the warm energy radiating up his neck and the way the light lingers a bit longer than usual.

Sherlock and Julien are huddled up together at the bar, chatting.  _ Probably in French _ , John thinks to himself. John looks at Sherlock; his colour is good, and he’s dressed as usual in his tight jeans and black t-shirt, but something’s different. His body language, it’s more...open -  _ he’s more relaxed around Julien than with the other bandmates _ .  _ Or maybe it’s the pills, _ John frowns slightly. Sherlock catches John’s eye and smiles. Moments later, Sherlock makes his way to the table and Julien follows.

“Hello, boys!” Anderson calls out, “Anyone fancy walking over to the Red Light District? We’re not far!”

“No thanks, Anderson.” Sherlock sneers and looks down at his drink.

“Well, that will be... _ funny _ . Yes, why not?” replies Julien, smiling broadly.

“He means  _ fun _ ,” Sherlock interjects. When the others stare at him silently, he continues, “What? It’s a common mistake for French speakers.”

“Are you his interpreter now?” Anderson rolls his eyes, getting up to leave. Julien downs his water and starts toward the exit.

“Good luck with that, boys!” John calls out.

“What do you mean?” Anderson scoffs as he turns round to look at John.

“Oh, nothing!” John grins, “Have fun!” 

John leans into Sherlock, who’s taken Anderson’s seat, and whispers, “They won’t be able to...  _ ahem... _ do anything, if you know what I mean.  Vasoconstriction is a side effect .”

Sherlock’s mouth quirks into a half-smile.

The impossibly long song that had been playing ends and Greg and Molly walk over.

“This is amazing! I mean, I’ve always loved dancing, but it feels incredible right now! Thanks, Greg!” Molly leans in and hugs her dance partner.

“Drink some water, kids!” John shouts over the music.

“Yes, Doctor,” they reply before walking over to the bar.

“Molly’s right - you should dance,” Sherlock speaks into John’s ear.

“I’m enjoying the texture of this glass right now, thanks,” John responds as he strokes the rim of his glass with his thumb, “Strange how you don’t really notice things like this normally, isn’t it?”

“Yes, everything feels better, as I said. Close your eyes.”

“What? Why?” John looks at his friend with a touch of alarm.

“Trust me,” Sherlock smiles.

When John shuts his eyes, Sherlock stands up  and moves behind his chair, bringing his hands up to either side of John’s head. His fingers are spread wide, and he presses down lightly, moving his hands up with a shampooing-like motion.

“Ahhh, that  _ is _ nice.” John leans back into the pressure.

Sherlock reaches the top of his head and pushes in softly with the heels of his hands. John’s eyes roll back in his head and he moans with delight.

“Sorry to break up...whatever this is,” Greg says, startling John into snapping his eyes open. Molly looks down at the glass in her hand.

“Listen, I have a great idea. Hot tub back at the hotel!” Greg smiles widely, “Actually, I have the room intended for Sherlock, but this idiot prefers smaller rooms, apparently.”

“Better acoustics.”

“Anyway, what do you think?” 

“I’m in!” says Molly straight away.

“Sounds amazing!” adds John, nodding his head.

“Whatever.” Sherlock shrugs, feigning indifference, but the smile on his face tells Greg that he’s enthusiastically game.

  
  


* * *

“Remember, only 20 minutes at a time! We don’t want to run the risk of dehydration. And we’ll need --” John is interrupted as he, Molly and Greg stand waiting for the jacuzzi to fill up.

“Plenty of water! Yes, you’ve only said it a hundred times!” Greg laughs and slaps John on the back.

“Well, I’m here as your doctor, after all,” John laughs sheepishly, looking over to the hot tub, “Everyone seems to forget that, including me sometimes.”

“Yeah, actually.” Molly chimes in. “I do forget. You’re more like an old friend. It’s like we’ve known you forever. You’re really lovely, John. And so kind!” She grins widely.

“Well, looks like hers have definitely kicked in!” Greg snickers, “But true enough. It’s been great having you with us, John. As a doctor and as a friend.”

“I’m honoured,” John is suddenly glowing with love for his new friends. Before he can say any more, Molly’s arms are encircling him, then he’s hit with Greg’s stronger embrace.

“Well, looks like I’ve walked in on something. Do I need to leave?” Sherlock shouts from the doorway.

“Get over here, you git!” Greg exclaims.

Sherlock smirks, then uncharacteristically moves into the group hug.

They’re still for a moment, then Greg breaks the embrace, “Jacuzzi, anyone?” And before waiting for a response, he strips down completely naked and jumps in. 

“Alright, what the hell!” Molly does the same, covering herself and slipping into the tub.

John strips down to his pants and looks over to Sherlock, who’s in the same state of undress, “Okay, you first!” he chuckles.

Sherlock smirks, then slides off his black boxer briefs and jumps into the hot tub with a splash.

“Jesus, Sherlock!” shouts Greg. 

“Rock and Roll, Greg! Don’t we have a reputation to live up to?”

John hesitates, then disrobes before quickly sliding into the empty space between Molly and Greg.

The water is gloriously warm and bubbly. John closes his eyes to take in all the sensations, vaguely listening to Molly and Greg, who are deep into fervent conversation about how lucky they are to be experiencing the kind of success that allows them to travel luxuriously around Europe. He silently agrees, then his thoughts are interrupted when he feels the most delightful sensation in his left foot. 

“Oh, that’s nice.” murmurs John.

“What is?” Greg interrupts Molly to ask.

“Foot massage,” Sherlock says as he lifts John’s foot out of the water to demonstrate.

“I bet that does feel good. Molly, would you like to experience your first massage during euphoria?” Greg offers.

“Why not? Though I think we’ll need to reposition ourselves a bit. Sherlock, trade places with me!” They both stand up, crossing each other in the deepest part of the jacuzzi. Suddenly, Sherlock stops and reaches out to give Molly a brief and unexpected hug.

“Oh!” Molly exclaims.

“Don’t be surprised, Molly. Ecstasy increases your urge to show physical affection,” Sherlock smiles sheepishly, “Also, you’re one of my best friends, so there’s that.” He kisses her forehead. Molly blushes.

John realises that seeing his friends naked and touching should be very strange, but the chemicals in his brain are making him immune to awkwardness.

“Oh, Sherlock! You’re one of my best friends too!” She squeezes his arm and turns to sit down opposite Greg. Sherlock takes her spot and reaches for John’s right foot this time.

“Bring your foot up so I can do yours at the same time,” John suggests, a soft smile on his face as he looks across to Sherlock. He obeys, and John begins mimicking the touches, pressing gently into the ball of his foot, stroking upward.

Everyone is quiet for a moment save for some  _ oohs _ and  _ awws _ , basking in the sensuous pleasure. Soon, Molly and Greg pick up their  _ we’re so lucky _ conversation.

After a few minutes, Sherlock drops John’s foot and declares, “I’m going to take a shower. A bit overheated.” He gets up with a slosh. His usual alabaster skin is pink and his face flushed. John notices that both sets of cheeks have the same rosiness. He averts his eyes from Sherlock’s cheeks when he realises he’s staring.

“Okay, everyone. We should take a break too.” John advises.

Everyone climbs out and gets dressed (though in very little.) They all drink some water and lie on the giant bed, relaxing. After a few minutes, John feels the bed move and Greg is on his feet, flipping through his CD collection. His senses are overwhelmed by a slow, steady drumbeat, then upbeat disco music.

_ Oh, what a night _

_ Late December, back in '63 _

_ What a very special time for me _

_ As I remember, what a night _

“Molly, do me the pleasure of being my dancing partner again?” Molly hops up and takes Greg’s hand immediately. John sits up to watch them, Greg in his green pants and Molly in her black knickers and bra.

_ Oh, what a night _

_ You know, I didn't even know her name _

_ But I was never gonna be the same _

_ What a lady, what a night _

Sherlock suddenly walks in and John notices he’s wearing a t-shirt in addition to his black pants. Greg spots this too and shouts out, “Hey! No Fair! You’re overdressed!” 

Sherlock grins and throws off his shirt. “John?”

“What?” John furrows his brow.

“Dance?”

John chuckles and stands up. Sherlock grabs him by the arm and spins him around.

_ Oh, what a night _

_ You know, I didn't even know her name _

_ But I was never gonna be the same _

_ What a lady, what a night _

John moves his hands to Sherlock’s shoulders as they move to the beat. 

_ Oh, I _

_ I got a funny feeling when she walked in the room _

_ And I _

_ As I recall, it ended much too soon _

Molly’s reaches over and grabs Sherlock’s wrists. “Trade partners?”

“Alright.” Sherlock acquiesces. The two of them dance in silence, moving quite expertly in sync.

_ Oh, what a night _

_ Hypnotizing, mesmerizing me _

_ She was everything I dreamed she'd be _

_ Sweet surrender, what a night _

  
  


John and Greg begin to move together, though a little less gracefully. 

“So, you and Molly seem to be having fun together, eh?” John winks.

“Yeah, like you and Sherlock?”

“ _ Haha _ , right.” John looks down, slightly embarrassed.

_ And I felt a rush like a rolling bolt of thunder _

_ Spinning my head around and taking my body under _

_ Oh, what a night _

Greg lets go of John and reaches out for Molly. He dips her immediately and they both break out in a fit of laughter. Sherlock grabs John’s hands and spins him under his arms, back around, and pulls him in close to his body. They move slowly with their eyes shut until they both hear moaning. They turn their heads at the same time, nearly cheek-to-cheek to see Greg and Molly kissing hotly.

“Oh. Right,” John looks at Sherlock seriously, “Maybe we should...eh, leave.”

Sherlock slowly loosens his grip on John and looks back at Molly and Greg. He chuckles, “Mmmm, yes. I think that’s best.”

* * *

Back in Sherlock’s room, John feels warm all over. It starts in his feet and travels up his legs, into his chest, neck, and finally to his head where he feels a fuzzy vibration behind his eyes. It’s too much, and he lies down on Sherlock’s bed where he suddenly feels like he’s under the sun, wrapped in a cloud. There’s so much energy coursing through his head and body that he feels the need to pour it out, like a teapot about to overflow. He sits up, sweating, but not unpleasant - he’s hot and cold at the same time. He thinks about removing excess clothing, then realizes there is none; he’s only wearing his red boxer shorts.  _ Shit. _ Sherlock is sitting on the floor, back leaning up against the wall, eyes shut. John looks down at him as he moves his fingers around on the feathery duvet.  _ This is fucking magical. _

John hears a moan escape his friend and notices his eyes still closed, his hands rubbing his own thighs. He notices the sharp angles of his face like he’s seeing him for the first time - he has the sudden urge to touch Sherlock, or anything, really. He touches his own face instead, likening the stubble on his chin to sand on a warm beach. He closes his eyes and smiles, noticing how the light lingers behind his eyes.

“This is brilliant!” 

“Mmmmmm.” Is all Sherlock says in response.

“You know, it’s like I’ve been waiting forever to feel like this. I’ve never felt so…free.”

“I think we’re peaking. Music?” Sherlock looks up. John nods his head in response, then watches Sherlock head over to the portable record player.

“The Beatles? Or…Portishead? Maybe some Serge Gainsbourg?”

“Er…you choose. Actually, who’s Serge Gainsbourg?” 

Sherlock lets out a deep chuckle. “Oh! You’re about to find out.”

The song starts with a beatnik-like drum beat, then a deep male voice. Words John doesn’t understand, but it reminds him of spoken-word poetry.

“Is this French?”

“Yes. And this song is brilliant! It’s called  _ Requiem Pour un Con _ , which basically translates to  _ Requiem for a Twat _ .” Sherlock grins.

“Sounds lovely.”

“It is!” he insists. “It’s full of double entendre and cynicism. And the rhythm's quite hypnotic, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, you can really feel the music on this stuff, can’t you?” 

“My hair is _s_ _ ooooo _ soft.” Sherlock has both hands in his curly mop, pulling his hair through his fingers from root to tip. “Touch it.” He moves his head in closer to John, leaning over the bed. He looks like a cat demanding to be petted. John plunges in his hand and strokes his hair back from the forehead to crown. 

“Ah, yeah, that’s nice. Very soft. I didn’t know hair could be that soft. It feels like...flower petals.” He laughs at his poetic observation, though he’s lost all the self-consciousness he was holding on to. He leans over, closes his eyes, and breathes in. 

“It doesn’t smell like flower petals, though,” John observes. “Your hair smells like tobacco and…is that lavender?  _ Mmmmm. _ ” He takes in another deep breath.

“Yes, I think so. Shampoo.” Sherlock leans in further, simultaneously pressing his forehead to John’s and bringing his fingertips to the hair at the nape of the other man’s neck. They remain like this for what feels, to John, like an eternity. Every sensation is amplified and he wonders why people are afraid to make this kind of contact with other humans in their normal lives.  _ The warmth from Sherlock’s forehead is like a hot stone, dampened by the rain. His breath is a cool breeze. The feeling of his hair is extraordinary -- like water running through my fingers.  _

“John, it’s like you’re everyone and everything all at once.”

“Yeah? It’s strange, isn’t it?” John says, leaning his head back into the pressure of Sherlock’s hands. “ _ Mmmm. _ It’s like you’re all of a sudden the only person in the world.”

Sherlock pulls away and looks him in the eyes. “Well, I am the only other person in this room.”

“Mmmm,” John murmurs, “ I feel like we should be solving the world’s problems together right now. I’ve got all this energy.”

“Dull.” Sherlock laughs as he stands up.

“ _ Is _ that dull?”

“Yes. Right now, I just want to experience this moment - I’m not usually able to do that. You’re here with me - the world’s problems are not. John Watson, what makes you _ tick _ , as they say?”

“Hmmm...well, right now, anything. Everything, I would say. It’s like there’s always something holding me back from saying what I mean, doing what I want, taking risks. I feel free from that apprehension right now. It’s as though I didn’t realize my anxiety until it was lifted.”

“What are you anxious about?” 

“I’m not sure if it’s something I can articulate. I just always feel like I have to do the right thing. Probably something about being the oldest child complex, but I’m no psychoanalyst.”

“Life is not something to fear, John.”

“Right,” John chuckles, “Says the man who’s afraid of nothing. Up there on stage baring your soul to thousands of people every night. With your cool clothes and your...cheekbones.”

Sherlock scoffs, “I wouldn’t say that. In fact, I’m quite afraid of failure, if I’m being honest. It pushes me to work hard, maybe too hard sometimes. Feeling like this right now, I can’t see the use of it.” He sits down next to John on the edge of the bed.

“Is that why you look for escape with…you know, drugs?”

“We’re escaping through drugs right now.” Sherlock smiles.

John laughs, “Yes, but you know what I mean. The hard stuff.”

“Mmmm, probably. But that’s over, and so’s this side of the record.”

John suddenly feels a great urgency to hear more music.  _ I can’t believe I’ve never heard this fucking amazing French singer before! I can’t understand a word, but I feel it all. I feel every fucking word. _ Sherlock gets up to flip the record, and they’re flooded by a distinctly 60’s sound, a slow melody and the whispering voices of a man and woman.

“ _ Je t’aime, Moi Non Plus,  _ It means,  _ I love you, me neither _ . Quite tongue-in-cheek.” There’s a funny story about this song, actually. Serge Gainsbourg first recorded this with his mistress, Bridget Bardot, but when her husband got word of the liaison that inspired the song, she begged Mr Gainsbourg not to release it. What you hear is the second recording, with his wife instead of Ms Bardot.”

He extends his hand toward him. “Dance?”

John looks up. “Yeah. Brilliant.” He doesn’t really feel like sitting any longer, and he has an unprecedented yearning for human contact. He reaches for Sherlock’s hand and is pulled to his feet, immediately enveloped in his long, thin arms.  _ I feel like a child being wrapped in a warm blanket. _ He presses his head into Sherlock’s chest. His cotton t-shirt feels luxurious, though not as luxurious as his hair. He reaches up to stroke the silk-like texture again.  _ So nice. Unbelievably soft. _ It’s more hugging than dancing to the slow melody, and John leans into the sound of the organ, experiencing pure exhilaration with every note. He’s startled by the sound of a woman moaning.  _ It’s almost arousing _ , thinks John, suddenly thankful for the vasoconstriction one experiences with this type of drug. 

“Are they actually having sex in the recording studio?” John scoffs into Sherlock’s chest.

“Mmm. It would seem so.” John looks up at Sherlock’s lips, then to his eyes. He reaches up and touches the full pout lightly with his fingertips, stroking down from his sharp cupid’s bow, over the damp slit, stopping on the plump lower lip. 

“What’s it feel like?” Sherlock whispers into John’s fingertips.

“Soft.” John murmurs, looking into Sherlock’s eyes again. “Everything is so fucking soft. Want to feel mine?”

“Mmmm.” But instead of reaching out with his fingers, Sherlock lowers his head, bringing their noses together with a bump. John moves his hand down to Sherlock’s shoulder and takes the opportunity to rub the tip of his nose up and down his friend’s. It feels like cool rubber against rubber.

Sherlock moves his lips slowly down to John’s, stilling them when they make light contact. The sensation is staggering, and John exhales shakily, enjoying the electric connection. After a few seconds like this, Sherlock moves his head up, then down, catching John’s lower lip with his top lip. Motionless for a moment, then he moves his lips along John’s, side to side -- not quite a kiss, but very intimate. The dragging motion feels magnetic like their lips are joined by some unseen force.

When Sherlock breaks the contact, John hears a quiet whimper, presumably escaping his own lips. 

Sherlock looks down at him, a soft smile on his face. “Sorry, music.” Sherlock pulls away to change the album.

_ Portishead. I know this one,  _ John thinks.

“Sit in the chair. I’m going to rub your head. I know you like that.” 

His fingers start lightly moving at the base of John’s skull where his head and neck meet. Then he begins massaging his scalp in slow, rhythmic circles.  _ Nothing has ever felt this good. _

“Do you want me to do your back?” Sherlock whispers into John’s ear.

“Yeah, go on then!” John gets up and flops onto his stomach on the bed. Sherlock walks over and sits on the back of his legs. 

“Ok, I’m going to start with your shoulders,” he whispers.

Only at that moment does John remember the scar from Bosnia on his shoulder. For once, he feels no shame or self-consciousness, only gratitude to be alive to experience this physical and emotional connection.

Every touch feels like energy is being pulled and pushed in and out of him by the magic of Sherlock’s fingertips. He moves his large hands down to John’s back, putting pressure on the lingering tightness there. 

“That feels amazing.” hums John.

He uses even more pressure, utilizing the palm of his hand to rub from his spine to the outer muscles. John moans in pure contentment. 

After a few minutes, John rolls over to his back and looks into Sherlock’s eyes.

“I think I’m melting.” he giggles. 

Sherlock smiles and lowers himself down a bit, face inches from John’s. “Too much?” He asks.

John’s not sure if he’s referring to the massage or to their close proximity. Sherlock’s fingertips are on his wrists, thumbs stroking small circles. Before John can answer, Sherlock suddenly looks away.

“I need to move around. Want to go outside?”

John isn’t sure if he wants to move, but doesn’t want to be selfish. In fact, he wants Sherlock to feel as good as he’s made him feel.

“Yeah, sounds good.” 

Sherlock gets up quickly and John misses the physical contact at once.  _ Jesus, ecstasy certainly makes you needy _ , he thinks. He reluctantly gets dressed, dreading the heat and confines of jeans and a jumper.

* * *

Outside, Sherlock lights a fag and looks up at the sky. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

It’s a cool, windy night and they can hear the leaves of the trees rustling somewhere in the distance. John looks up at the clear sky, the moon and the stars visible. “There’s Orion’s Belt.” 

“I’m sure I knew that at one time, but I’ve tried to delete all the useless information I’ve acquired over the years.” Sherlock states.

“You consider the Solar System useless?”

“Usually, yes. But it’s certainly gorgeous to look at right now.”

“Everything’s gorgeous to look at right now, isn’t it? I feel like I’ll never see anything the same way again. D’you know what I mean?”

“I do.” He responds and reaches out with his free hand to clutch John’s.  _ Touch. This feels good.  _ They stand like this for what could have been a minute or an hour, looking up at the stars, blindly caressing each other’s fingers. Finally, Sherlock lets go and lights up another cigarette. He inhales, then hands it over to John. “If smoking always felt like this, I’d definitely develop a habit.” John laughs and coughs at the same time.

When the cigarette’s out, Sherlock looks up at the top floors of the hotel, “Let’s go back up.” 

* * *

Back in the room, John stands as Sherlock puts on another album. 

_ When you were here before _

_ Couldn't look you in the eye _

_ You're just like an angel _

_ Your skin makes me cry _

It’s a song he’s heard on the radio recently,  _ Creep,  _ but the lyrics seem particularly poignant in his altered state. Sherlock sits down in the chair at the desk where the record player sits.

_ You float like a feather _

_ In a beautiful world _

_ And I wish I was special _

_ You're so fuckin' special _

Without speaking, John walks behind Sherlock and begins stroking his hair and massaging his scalp like Sherlock had done for him. 

_ But I'm a creep, I'm a weirdo. _

_ What the hell am I doing here? _

_ I don't belong here. _

Sherlock lets his head drop back and John brings his hands down to his shoulders, then chest. John is lost in his movements until suddenly Sherlock grabs his hands and stands up.

_ I don't care if it hurts _

_ I want to have control _

_ I want a perfect body _

_ I want a perfect soul _

They stare at each other and it feels like a silent question.

_ I want you to notice _

_ When I'm not around _

_ You're so fuckin' special _

_ I wish I was special _

  
  


“Can I… can I kiss you? Properly?” Sherlock looks into John’s eyes with serious focus, his pupils blown impossibly wide.

_ But I'm a creep, I'm a weirdo. _

_ What the hell am I doing here? _

_ I don't belong here. _

John has never had any interest in kissing a bloke until this moment. Right now he wants nothing more than to feel the texture of Sherlock’s lips against his own again. 

“Er...yeah.” He nods his head emphatically, “Yes. Definitely.”

Sherlock moves his lips down to John’s, only making light contact. The sensation is staggering, too much and not enough at the same time. John exhales shakily, enjoying the electric connection. Without thinking, he pouts slightly, increasing the pressure between the point of contact. Sherlock responds in kind, then tilts his head to the side, parting his lips. They both groan as John takes Sherlock’s bottom lip into his mouth. He sucks lightly, and is overcome by an urgency to feel more. Sherlock’s tongue moves searchingly, and John offers his in return, savouring the feeling of wet velvet. Sherlock intensifies the kiss by sucking lightly on John’s tongue. He tastes like sweet earth and vaguely of tobacco - it’s intoxicating. Soon, they’re clumsily lapping at each other, both panting and moaning unabashedly. Sherlock purrs and it feels magical. It’s a sloppy, wet kiss, extremely sensual, yet not urgent.

  
  


John pulls away gently to catch his breath and looks up to meet Sherlock’s eyes, but Sherlock’s head is tilted down, eyes averted. John gasps as he feels Sherlock’s mouth on his neck. First, there are a few light kisses, then a languorous lick slides up to his pulse point. John’s hands go back up to his satin hair, taking in a strand and rolling it around between his fingertips. The music stops and Sherlock pulls back, hands resting on John’s lower back. 

“John? I think it’s best we…stop there. Don’t you?”

“Er…yeah. Right. Yeah, that’s a…good idea.”

He holds John at arms length, “Music? Music!” He grins and vigorously kisses John’s forehead before pulling away and walking back to the record player. He takes out a different vinyl and puts it on.  There’s a  smooth guitar melody and silky male voice singing about doomed love. 

“Chris Isaak. This album is everything. Perfect for coming down.” 

“Right. Good. Yeah, it’s quite nice.”

Sherlock walks back to John, who’s standing still with his eyes closed. “John?”

“Hmm?”

“We should try to get some rest.”

“Okay,” John opens his eyes and looks around, “I’ll just go then, I--”

“Stay?”

John chuckles, “Sherlock, I’m not sure. I...er...I --”

“Sleep, John.”

“Of course. Yeah, okay.”

Sherlock switches off the lights and climbs under the duvet. John walks to the bathroom and splashes his face with water. He looks at himself and bursts into a fit of giggles.

“What is it?” Sherlock shouts from the other room.

“I just look…ridiculous,” John chuckles. “Drugs.” He walks back into the bedroom and pauses for a moment before sliding into the empty side of the bed. Sherlock is lying on his stomach, and though the pills are definitely wearing off, he still craves touch. “Want a back massage now?”

  
  


Sherlock turns his head. “No, but…there’s something you could do for me, if you wouldn’t mind.”

“Yeah?”

“Could you scratch my back? Just lightly. It’s something my grandmother used to do for me when I was a child.”

“Are you saying I remind you of your grandmother?”

“Definitely not. As lovely as she was, she wasn’t exactly the brave army doctor type.”

John smiles dumbly to himself, accepting the flattery. Sherlock sits up and takes off his shirt, before lying back down on his side away from John. John scoots in and brings his fingertips to the small of Sherlock’s too bony back and starts a slow up and down movement.

“Like this?”

“Mmmm. Thank you, John. For this, and everything. It was,” He pauses, “fun.”

“It was,” John smiles, “completely insane!” He strokes soft circles. “But yeah, also fun. I agree.”

* * *

The next thing John knows he’s awake in the blue light of morning, feeling a bit disorientated. He startles for a moment when he feels the warmth of another body next to him, but when he turns over to see Sherlock sleeping soundly, curls tousled and lightly snoring, the night comes slowly into focus.  _ Oh, right. _ He lies there for a moment before he gets up and stretches, then walks to the sink to get a glass of water. He drinks down one glass, then another. He’s tired and considers lying back down.  _ That could be…awkward _ , he thinks, and instead, goes to close the blinds and turn off the humming record player before making his exit.

_ Well, that’s one for the books _ , he laughs to himself as he turns the key.

  
  
  
  
  



	5. Prague

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Please don’t put your life in the hands  
Of a rock n roll band  
Who’ll throw it all away

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're playing the accompanying playlist, this chapter begins with Violet by Hole.

**Sherlock Does Europe**

**Kitty Winter**

**May 22nd, 1994**

We have inside info from abroad that _Velvet_’s frontman, Sherlock Holmes has been breaking hearts (or at least breaking in mattresses) all over Europe! Sherlock has been spotted cosying up to bandmate, Greg Lestrade and an adorable mystery man (_see pictures on opposite page _ ). But that’s nothing compared to his intimate moment with Velvet's new drummer, Julien Delaplace. Rumour has it that Britain's hottest rockstar has left Sally Donovan from the punk band _ 3 Licks for_ the handsome Frenchman, formerly of _ The Igloos._ It seems he doesn't discriminate!

We’re not convinced, however, that there’s nothing going on between him and bandmate Molly Hooper. 

What’s sure is Britain's favourite frontman is having a great time and putting on one hell of a show all over Europe!

There’s one more performance on the continent, then you’ll have your chance to see them in London before they embark on their American tour next month. Maybe you’ll be one of the lucky women (or men!) featured in **The Gossip Pages** next month!

* * *

“Oi, Sherlock! You could share!” Greg shakes his head and laughs. The band, Ricky, and John are all backstage winding down after their final performance in Europe.

Molly blushes and looks down at her feet. Sherlock turns to Greg with disdain, “Fuck off, Greg! You know how it is, anything to sell one of these idiotic magazines you seem to enjoy spending money on.”

“Well, at least this article makes it look like you’re having fun on tour instead of just being an insufferable cock!”

John flips through the glossy pages of **Voici,** a trashy French gossip magazine that Greg had picked up. It features an article about Julien’s joining _Velvet and_ though John can’t understand much of the text, it seems to speculate about the drummer’s relationship with the band’s enigmatic frontman. John’s lips tighten. He doesn’t think he likes Julien, though he’s not quite sure why. He puts down the magazine without closing it and walks over to the drinks table. There are loads of people milling about but he doesn’t feel like talking to anyone. The angry Grunge music playing doesn’t easily allow for conversation, anyway. _ The song is perfect, so angry and energetic,_ John thinks distractedly. He’s actually so lost in his thoughts that he hardly notices the woman with long bright red hair speaking to him.

“What’s your name?” she asks in heavily accented English.

“Oh, I’m John,” he grabs a beer and starts to walk away, then thinks he should be polite. He turns around to talk to her, hoping to improve his mood. “What’s yours?”

“I’m Marika. Are you in a band?” she asks coyly. 

John chuckles, “No, I’m not. Does that disappoint you?”

“No,” she replies, shrugging “I just ask.”

John takes in her looks; she’s quite young, petite and curvy. Flirting with her could be fun, a good distraction from… what has him such in a strop, anyway? He doesn’t quite understand, or more aptly, doesn’t want to examine why he has such a bad taste in his mouth.

“Do you want to go out and have a smoke?” He smiles at her.

“Yes. Let’s go.” she grins back eagerly.

* * *

“That was a great final performance. I think we should be proud of ourselves!” Molly grins.

“Yeah, everything was spot on. Sherlock, you were incredible as usual, you git,” smiles Greg.

“Where’s John?” Sherlock snaps, ignoring the compliment.

“Haven’t seen him,” Greg looks around, “Say, Sherlock, would you be interested in doing a repeat of Amsterdam tonight? I have some more pills and--”

“No.” Sherlock responds flatly as he turns on his heels and walks out the backstage door into the narrow alleyway. He looks around for John and notices two figures in the shadows of the building next door. The two people seem to be talking closely - _ no, they’re kissing,_ he thinks. He looks down the alley one last time, then back to the couple. This time, he makes out John’s face in the shadows. _ He’s kissing some woman. _John’s eyes flash open, fixing on Sherlock’s intensely for two or three beats before he distractedly brings his attention back to the kiss.

Back inside, Sherlock cuts past Greg and Molly who are standing by a bin full of bottles of beer, “Sherlock, are you keen on going to the --”

“No!” he snaps, “ I’m going back to the hotel.”

“_ Mais, Sherlock! C’est la dernière soirée _!” Julien protests, citing that it’s the last night of the tour.

“_ Je m’en fous _.” Sherlock retorts back with a hiss and storms off.

* * *

As John enters his hotel, he shakes the rain off his umbrella and looks up to the lift in front of him. He had considered bringing Marika to the club the others were headed to, or back to his room, but found he couldn’t be arsed. In fact, at the moment, he wants nothing more than for the tour to be over... _ Good thing we head back to London tomorrow,_ he thinks. Perhaps he’s still coming down from Saturday, but he’s over the constant travelling and parties. He feels like he’s caught in Sherlock’s orbit and if he gets too close, he’ll burn. They’ve become quite close and it’s destabilizing. They kissed, for God’s sake! His current life is such a contrast from Bosnia, it’s a real mind-fuck. He has to to get his bearings.

As he walks down the corridor toward his hotel room, he hears violin music coming from Sherlock’s next door. It’s high energy this time, not mournful. He’s in a good mood, he thinks, but then why isn’t he celebrating a successful tour with the others? He considers knocking but decides that being on his own is what he needs. He’s knackered and doesn’t even turn on the lights before taking off his jeans and getting into bed.

The next thing he knows, there’s a knock at his door waking him. He ignores it and tries to go back to sleep. Then there’s another insistent knock, “Bloody hell!”

He sits up and scratches his head before getting up and walking to the door. He looks through the peephole and sees Sherlock leaning against the doorframe. He flings open the door, “I was sleeping!” 

“John, can I come in?” Sherlock asks evenly.

“No, Sherlock. I don’t feel like talking, I just feel like sleeping.”

Sherlock blinks, “Can I just… just for a moment. Please.”

John waves his hand in the general direction of the room and opens the door wider. Sherlock follows him in.

“John, what are you angry about?”

“Well, I’m tired and you’re keeping me from sleep, to start.” John sits down on the end of the bed, pulling his legs in underneath him. 

Sherlock looms over him, “No, earlier in the evening. You didn't even go out with the others?”

"Neither did you!” John snaps back.

“I….” Sherlock hesitates, “I guess I didn’t feel like partaking in festivities.”

“Okay,” John looks up at Sherlock, “I’m going to ask you something, Sherlock. Is there anything going on with you and Julien?”

Sherlock looks at him seriously, "Why do you care?"

“I don’t read French, but the magazines seem to be implying it, and he has quite a reputation for drugs and debauchery and...." John sighs, "are you using with him? "

“No.” he responds flatly.

“Ok, well, good. There was that picture… I thought maybe you two had some kind of...thing. No?" John looks at Sherlock questioningly, "No. Okay, nevermind. ”

“What kind of _thing_?!”

“I don't know! A drugs and sex thing? It looked like you were about to kiss in that photo.”

“John, the only person I’ve kissed this entire tour is you.” Sherlock looks John square in the eyes.

“Right,” John clears his throat and looks down, “Maybe we shouldn’t talk about that. You know, taking recreational drugs with your patients, not very professional,” John pauses a moment, “Anyway, I just don’t trust Julien.”

“You mean you don’t trust me with Julien?”

“I guess I’m afraid you’ll relapse.”

“I won’t.”

“Good,” John says quietly.

“Good. Goodnight.” Sherlock turns, hesitates a moment, then slowly leans over John, planting a chaste kiss on his temple. Before John can respond, Sherlock is gone and John is even more confused than before. 

He gets up to turn off the light, then lies back in bed wondering if he’ll be able to sleep at all.


	6. Back to London

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stand up beside the fireplace  
Take that look from off your face

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're listening to the accompanying playlist, this chapter begins with No Surprises by Radiohead.
> 
> https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0pI0ojpvcjgBj4n7zRwMIF?si=kb95GDvTSkWDPpwteHuZ6A

**Sunday, June 12th, 1994**

**7 days before the American tour**

John looks down at the letter in his hand. _ New Zealand. _ He’s never considered emigrating, but New Zealand has a certain new world freshness that appeals to him. Since Harry wrote to him about her local clinic in Christchurch urgently needing a physician, he has gone from completely discounting the idea, to seriously considering it. He’s been back from Europe for nearly two weeks now, and job prospects are not looking promising. The one NHS clinic he felt really good about had called him for a second interview, only to choose another applicant instead. When this opportunity had fallen through, he briefly considered joining Velvet for their American tour. It would be great money, sure, but he’s uncertain whether it would be the right move for him.

He walks over to the kettle to make some tea. He hasn’t seen Sherlock since the London show at the end of the European tour, and he’s not sure whether to feel disappointed or relieved. He misses him, the excitement of the tour, the fun of hanging ‘round the band. However, he’s aware that his identity was getting too muddled up in all the chaos and his friendship with Sherlock. _ I really need to take this time to figure things out _, he thinks to himself, though he’s unsure of what exactly there is to figure out. 

The kettle boils, and just as he pours the water into the mug over the teabag, the phone rings. 

“Hello?”

“John. It’s Mycroft.”

“Mycroft! If this is to discuss the American tour, I’ve -”

“No, John. Sherlock’s in hospital.”

“What?! Why? Is he all right?” John’s chest suddenly feels heavy and there’s a tingling sensation in his hands and feet.

“He was drugged. He has pulled through, but he’s not well, John.”

“Drugged? Are you sure?”

“Yes, quite sure. Can you come? He’s asked for you.”

“Of course,” John sighs and rubs his free hand over his face, “Of course I’ll be there. Where is he?”

  


* * *

  


John strides down what he sincerely hopes is the correct corridor of King’s College Hospital and stops abruptly when he sees Mycroft leaning against one of the room doors.

“John. He’s awake, but can I have a word first?

“Okay.”

“I have a proposition -”

“Not now, Mycroft! Surely you’re not thinking of business when your brother’s in the bloody hospital! What happened anyway?”

“That’s precisely what I’d like to speak to you about. And I’m sure he’ll fill you in on all the details. What I need to know is, will you stay with him? As his doctor, that is? As I’m sure you know, since the two of you have become quite,” Mycroft clears his throat, “intimate during the tour -”

“Mycroft, it’s -”

“Just listen, John. Please. Sherlock will not stay in hospital. I know he won’t. So, either you will stay with him for a few days, just until they leave for the American tour, and help him through this, or he'll go home alone where he’ll try to control his withdrawal symptoms by self-medicating.”

John sighs. “I think that’s called emotional blackmail.”

Mycroft raises an eyebrow, “You would be paid a tidy sum, of course.”

John sighs. “Mycroft, you don’t have to pay me. He’s my friend. Of course, I’ll stay with him. But I really would prefer he stay in hospital for a few days.”

“Well, that’s not going to happen,” Mycroft says shortly, “And, while we’re at it, perhaps you’ll reconsider the American tour? For Sherlock’s sake.”

“I don’t think so. And anyway, he was drugged? He’s not using, right?”

“I don’t think so, no.”

“Mycroft, I’m actually thinking of going to New Zealand to work. My sister’s there.”

Mycroft looks disgusted by the idea, “_ New Zealand _. Well, if you do decide to go on tour, you’ll have enough money for a plane ticket and the downpayment on a house, I assure you,” Mycroft looks down at his watch, “But right now, I must take my leave. Cheerio.”

Mycroft briskly walks in the direction John has just came from while John hesitates outside the hospital door. He takes a deep breath, preparing to see his friend in a hospital bed before turning the handle.

As the door opens onto the room, he sees Sherlock in the bed, hair a mess, drowsy looking, but awake. He perks up a bit when John enters. 

“Hi, Sherlock.”

“John. This is oddly reminiscent of the night we met, though I’m sure I was in something more flattering than a gown at the time.”

John unsuccessfully tries to force a smile and sits down in a chair by the bed. “Sherlock, are you alright? What happened?” 

“Jim. I went to see Blur at Bagley’s and Jim was there with some of his cronies. He got to my drink backstage after the show. Rohypnol. Quite a lot of it.”

“Jesus!”

“They gave me a gastric lavage, otherwise it could have killed me.”

“I’ll kill him.” John looks at him with sudden rage in his eyes. 

Sherlock smiles, “That won’t be necessary - he’s in police custody now. Before I lost consciousness, I was able to tell Molly to have the manager check the security footage. It was all there in black and white.”

“Well, good. But Sherlock, you’ll need to stay in hospital for a few days. You’re going to experience some nasty withdrawal symptoms.”

“I’m going home, John. I know Mycroft had a word with you just before you came in. You’re going with me, aren’t you?”

“Well, I’m not going to let you stay alone.”

“I’m sorry John. I know that’s asking a lot, but Mycroft will compensate you generously.”

“I’m not doing it for money, you berk. I’m doing it because you’re my friend,” John reaches out to pat Sherlock’s knee, avoiding eye contact.

“I never saw the point in having friends before,” Sherlock looks up at John, “Thanks to you, now I do,” he smiles weakly and John looks up to meet his gaze.

They hold the stare for a few moments until John feels his eyes moisten and looks away.

* * *

  
  


**Monday, June 13th, 1994**

**6 days before the American Tour**

“Breakfast?” John asks Sherlock as he puts two pieces of bread in the toaster.

“Just tea for me, thanks.”

“You should eat now while you’re feeling alright. You’re still feeling okay?”

“Hmmm, just a bit beat up from the stomach pumping, other than that, fine.”

“Well, don’t worry, symptoms of withdrawal should set in by this afternoon or tonight unless you’re very lucky. You really should eat now - I’m not sure you’ll be able to keep anything down once the nausea sets in.”

“Lovely.” Sherlock puts his paper down and stands up from his chair by the fireplace before walking over to the kitchen table. “How was the room upstairs?”

“Oh, fine. Ta. I slept like a log. I was a bit confused when I woke up, but other than that...”

John puts the two pieces of toast on a plate and hands it to Sherlock, then puts two more in the toaster for himself. “And here’s your tea,” he hands the steaming mug over to his friend.

They finish their breakfast in comfortable silence, then John pipes up, “You know, it might be nice to get some fresh air while you’re in good shape. Want to go on a walk?”

Sherlock smiles, “Why not? I’m already getting bored of doing nothing.”

“Good to hear I’m so boring.”

“You’re not boring, John, but you’ll be much more interesting outdoors.” Sherlock walks over to the coat tree and retrieves two hats, “Here, put this on. I don’t want anyone to recognize us.”

“You mean recognize _ you _.”

“Yes,” Sherlock smirks and flings on a wool deerstalker.

* * *

“So, have you seen much of Molly and Greg since the last show? Or Julien?” John asks as they walk in Regent’s Park.

“Of course. We’ve been rehearsing. It appears that Julien is going to be joining us on a permanent basis.”

“Right.”

“John, like I said, I’m not using.”

“Okay,” John concedes.

Sherlock looks at him and narrows his eyes. John clears his throat and asks, “So what have you been up to?”

“You mean besides getting drugged?”

“Yes, besides getting drugged by that bastard. Anyway, does he really hate you that much to… try to kill you or whatever he was thinking?”

“It would appear so,” Sherlock says evenly “And to answer your previous question, I’ve been relaxing, playing the violin, working on some new music.”

“Have you seen Sally?”

“No.”

“Good.”

“John, it’s over.”

“I believe you. That’s… good.”

“So, you think I’ll begin experiencing some withdrawal symptoms tonight?”

“Given the dose you were given, I’d expect so. Even after having your stomach pumped.”

Sherlock groans, “Being sick is so tedious. Do you think I’ll be able to rehearse Friday?”

“I should think so, I don’t expect your symptoms to be severe for more than three or four days”

“That’s quite long enough.”

* * *

That evening, John adds the finishing touches to the mash as Mrs Hudson enters the flat.

“Woo hoo?” She knocks, “Oh, Sherlock! What terrible business! How are you feeling, dear?” 

Sherlock, who is lying on the sofa, responds, “Oh, Mrs Hudson, you know, nothing like being drugged and having a gastric lavage to get you going. The withdrawal symptoms I’ve been looking forward to are beginning to set it.”

“Oh, dear! Well, at least you’ve got Doctor Watson here to take care of you!”

“Well, the idiot refused to stay in hospital, and we couldn’t let him go through this alone, could we?”

“Oh, John! You’re such a wonderful boyfriend!”

John clears his throat and blushes, “We’re friends, Mrs Hudson.”

“Oh, I don’t mind! Mrs Turner next door’s got married ones!” She beams at John, “Anyway, what you need, Sherlock, is a nice bath and a hot toddy to fix you up.”

“Actually, I’ve just given Sherlock something to help ease his withdrawal symptoms. Alcohol is certainly not a good idea, and neither is being alone in a warm bath.”

  
“Well, he won’t be alone, will he? Not with you’re here.”

John coughs as he dries his hands on a tea towel, “Right, who’s ready for food?”

* * *

Sherlock manages to eat a bit and is now back on the sofa covered with every sheet and duvet he could find. Mrs Hudson helps John with the washing up and excuses herself back to her flat. John walks over to Sherlock and places his hand on his forehead, “You feel a bit warm.”

“I feel cold,” He groans.

“Well, no hot toddy, but how about that bath Mrs Hudson suggested? How drowsy are you feeling?”

“Quite. But perhaps I’ll be able to get some real rest after the bath.”

“Okay, well, I won’t let you drown.”

“Are you offering to take a bath with me?” Sherlock smiles weakly.

“No,” John shakes his head, “No! I’m offering to keep an eye on you, make sure you don’t fall asleep in there!”

“Alright.” Sherlock nods.

John stands and walks to the bathroom where he starts running the bath. Sherlock follows a few moments later and begins to drop his sheets and strip down.

“Sherlock!”

“Honestly, John." he says, rolling his eyes." Didn’t we get past seeing each other naked in Amsterdam? I didn’t know you were able to delete memories as well.”

“_You_ haven’t deleted that? I’m surprised.”

Sherlock huffs as he takes off his pants, “If only I could delete the image of Greg’s naked body.”

John turns his head, laughing. Sherlock climbs into the tub.

“Now, I’m going to go make us some tea and grab a book and I’ll be right back. Try not to fall asleep while I’m gone.”

  


* * *

  


Sherlock lies still in the tub as John sits on the covered toilet seat reading.

“You know, the first night I met you, we had you in the tub. I’m sure you don’t remember.”

“No, I don’t, but I vaguely remember being wet and cold afterwards. Cold shower, I presume?”

“That, and we dumped a tray of ice cubes down your pants.”

Sherlock sighs, “Oh. Sorry about that.”

“It’s water under the bridge. I’m just glad you’re staying clean. I have to admit when I didn’t hear from you the last two weeks I worried you’d started using again.”

“I didn’t hear from you either.”

“Yeah, well. I’ve been busy trying to figure things out. And I didn’t want to bother you.”

“You wouldn’t have bothered me.”

“Okay. Well, honestly, I’ve been thinking about going to New Zealand. Harry’s local clinic is looking for a GP.”

“Harry? I thought you two didn’t get on?”

“We don’t, really. I mean, we haven’t in the past. But she’s off...whatever she was on and has settled down somewhat with her girlfriend, Clara.”

“Hmmm.” Sherlock mumbles. “You can stay here, you know. I’ll be in America - even if I wasn’t. Until you leave for New Zealand, that is.”

“I may do that. Cheers.” John looks over to Sherlock in the cooling water, “Are you ready to get out of there?”

“No.”

“You’ll shrivel up like a prune!” he warns, smiling slightly. 

“Ok, hand me a towel.” Sherlock concedes.

John stands and hands Sherlock a towel from the cabinet. Sherlock gets out and unabashedly begins to dry his body and hair as he walks into the bedroom. John follows.

“Shall I go get you some extra duvets?” John coughs as he tries, unsuccessfully, to divert his gaze from his friend’s silhouette. He walks out of the room and comes back with the two duvets from the sofa. “This should do.”

“Thank you, John.”

“You didn’t take mine from upstairs, did you?”

Sherlock, in his silk pyjamas, climbs under the mass of duvets. “No. These are extras.” 

John sits down on the bed beside Sherlock and places the back of his hand on his forehead.

“You know, if I were capable of embarrassment, I’d be mortified by the frequency at which you’ve taken care of me lately.”

“It’s my pleasure - well, I mean... it’s fine. It's all fine. You’re my friend, it’s what friends do. Plus, I am a doctor.”

“A friend who’s a doctor. And an army doctor, at that. How did I get so lucky?” Sherlock laughs.

John looks down and brushes a stray curl from Sherlock’s head before withdrawing his hand. He looks at Sherlock with a tenderness the other man did not expect. 

“John?”

John clears his throat, “I’m going to leave you another Ativan in case you wake up and can’t go back to sleep. I’ll be on the sofa if you need me.”

John gets up and walks toward the door, flicking the light off before he exits.

“Goodnight, John.”

“Goodnight.”

* * *

  
  


**Tuesday, June 14th, 1994**

** _5 days before the American Tour_ **

It’s still dark out when John wakes up sweaty a few hours later. _ A nightmare? No, there’s no feeling of dread...Oh, Jesus. John thinks back to his dream. _ It was the pills night in Amsterdam, but instead of kissing and going to bed, well, they had gone to bed in the figurative sense _ . _ He could almost still feel Sherlock’s skin against him, the taste of his tongue on his. _ Oh, God. _

“John?”

John bolts up as Sherlock walks into the sitting room. “Erm, how are you feeling?”

“Better, but to be fair, there’s nothing else to throw up.” 

Sherlock sits down gingerly on the sofa beside John, who inches away, still thinking of the inappropriateness of his dream and wondering if Sherlock will somehow know. 

“You were sick after the last time I was up with you?”

“Yes. I’m surprised I didn’t wake you.”

“I guess I was knackered.” John rubs his hands over his face and yawns, “Have you slept at all?”

“No, but that’s hardly out of the ordinary.”

Sherlock reaches for the remote on the coffee table - Seinfeld is on.

“I love this show.”

“I’m entertained by how idiotic everyone is.”

“Of course you are.” John smiles, “I like it. I don’t think they’re idiotic at all.”

Sherlock puts the remote down and spreads out, resting his calves on John’s thighs without a hint of awkwardness. John feels slightly uncomfortable but reminds himself that dreams are not necessarily an indication of desire. John's eyes drift closed once more, and the next thing he knows it's sunny outside. Seinfeld is still on the telly. _ A marathon _. By the looks of it, it’s noon or nearly noon. His shoulders are cramped and his legs are asleep. He looks down at his lap and sees that Sherlock’s head is resting there now. John studies him for a moment and is suddenly overcome with warmth for his suffering friend. When he thinks of how Jim had thwarted his efforts to stay clean and possibly tried to kill him, the tenderness is replaced by anger and protectiveness. 

John eases his way up, trying not to disturb Sherlock. Still thinking about how he’d kill Jim if he weren’t in police custody, he looks out the window onto the street below before he walks towards the kettle to make tea.

* * *

Sherlock had woken up around 2 while John was out for a stroll. When John returned, he checked in on his patient, who seemed to be doing better, despite the body aches that had now overtaken him. He hadn’t been sick since the early morning hours and he didn’t feel quite as cold, thankfully.

John takes a shower, makes some more tea, and orders them a Chinese takeaway. When they’re finished eating and John has done the washing up, he takes his place next to Sherlock on the sofa after turning on some music. 

“It’s almost time for another Ativan. Are you still achy?”

“Very much so.”

“I’ll give you an Ibuprofen as well, then.”

“You could give me that massage you owe me.” Sherlock smiles sluggishly.

When John sighs, he hopes that Sherlock thinks it’s because he doesn’t feel like giving a massage, and not that his reluctance has anything to do with a possible latent attraction.

“I could.” John clears his throat again, “I can. Sure.” 

Sherlock takes off his shirt before he goes to the bedroom, returning with a bottle in hand.

“You have massage oil?”

Sherlock looks embarrassed, “It’s not exactly massage oil, but it will do the trick.”

The look of embarrassment is mirrored on John’s face. “I won’t ask. Lie down.”

Sherlock painstakingly makes his way to lie face-down on the sofa, and John awkwardly gets on his knees between his spread legs to have access to his back before squeezing the liquid in the unmarked bottle into his palms. He rubs his hands together. _ Lubricant. Oh, dear god. _

John starts at Sherlock’s shoulders, which are very tight indeed. He kneads lightly until Sherlock pipes up, “I’m not an invalid! Harder!”

“Okay! Jesus. I just didn’t want to make you feel worse than you already do.” 

Sherlock moans with the increased pressure, and John begins incorporating his thumbs and the heel of his hands to work the movement up Sherlock’s neck. His face is hovering over Sherlock’s head, and he doesn’t resist the urge to inhale, curious if Sherlock still smells of the herbal shampoo. There’s a faint whiff of lavender, but no tobacco, which is replaced by a sweet musky smell. John is suddenly self-conscious and pulls back to begin massaging Sherlock’s middle and lower back.

As he presses deeply into the skin on either side of Sherlock’s spinal column, Sherlock groans... If John had any question about whether he was actually turned on by Sherlock, or if his dream were actually an indication of his desires, he now had his response. John feels like a pilot light has been lit in his groin, and pulls back abruptly. Sherlock turns over just as quickly, and they stare at each other for a few moments before the front door swings open.

“Mycroft. Don’t you knock?” Sherlock snears.

“Well, had I known I’d be interrupting,” Mycroft gestures to the two men on the sofa, Sherlock lying on his back shirtless, John on his knees between his legs, “an intimate moment, I would have, surely.”

Sherlock sits up, “John was giving me a massage, Mycroft.”

“Yes, I’m sure.” He cocks an eyebrow, “Anyway, I’ve got news.”

John lowers himself down to a seated position and looks toward Mycroft.

“Well?” Sherlock asks impatiently.

“Jim has been sentenced to a year hard time.”

John scoffs before stating, “He deserves more.” 

“Yes, I agree, Doctor Watson. But for now, at least, we know Sherlock will have nothing to worry about.”

“Is that all? Couldn’t you have called?”

“I thought you’d be happy.”

Sherlock jumps up and walks over to his brother, “Thank you, now I'm sure you're very busy, best not dawdle, eh!” Sherlock says as he pushes Mycroft toward and out the door.

The door slams in Mycroft’s face, but Instead of walking back to the sofa, Sherlock heads directly toward the bathroom and starts the shower, quickly closing the door behind him.

John is baffled. _ What just happened? Why was he, a straight man, having thoughts like those about his mate? Why does Sherlock seem so unconcerned about Jim. _

John pushes the thoughts out of his mind and heads upstairs.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	7. Baker Street, London

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You ain't never going to burn my heart out

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If your listening to the accompanying playlist, this chapter begins with Heart-Shaped Box by Nirvana
> 
> https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0pI0ojpvcjgBj4n7zRwMIF?si=JBy77M27SgG-kw5aVckCHg

##  **James Moriarty, Britpop Drummer Sentenced**

15 June 1994

James Moriarty, 30, has been sentenced to a year in HMP Pentonville for spiking the drink of former bandmate and _ Velvet _ frontman Sherlock Holmes, aged 29.

He broke down in tears as he was convicted, and was remanded in custody ahead of his transfer to Pentonville later in the week.

Prosecutors said Moriarty administered the drug Rohypnol to Mr Holmes’ drink at a London club on Saturday night. While his intentions for drugging Mr Holmes are unclear, administering any drug without a person’s consent is considered infliction of bodily harm. Mr Holmes was admitted to King’s Cross Hospital for Rohypnol overdose early Sunday morning and is reported to have been released later that day.

##  **The “Date-rape” Drug**

Rohypnol is also known as the “date-rape” drug, but drink spiking may also be done with the intent of stealing from the victim, physically assaulting the victim, or as a prank.

Whatever the motivation, drink spiking is illegal and can result in a maximum of 10 years in prison for anyone who’s found guilty.

Every year in the UK, hundreds of people are thought to be victims of drink spiking, where alcohol or drugs are added to someone’s drink without them knowing.

* * *

**Thursday, July 16th, 1994**

**2 days before the American Tour**

John lies in his bed, rubbing his temples in the early afternoon sun on Thursday, a bit hungover from Greg and Molly’s visit the night before. The last few days had been tiring with him moving his meagre belongings into the flat - just until he leaves in a few weeks for New Zealand, he’s decided - and organizing his flight and job interview. The late-night with Greg and Molly, who have unsurprisingly decided to pursue a relationship, was just the straw that broke the camel’s back. He hasn’t yet told Sherlock of his definite plans to go to New Zealand, and John had been actively avoiding him up until the impromptu gathering last night. Not that there had been much of a chance to avoid Sherlock; the man had been out of the flat constantly since his recovery. John wonders if he’s avoiding him as well. 

John sighs with frustration and embarrassment before his thoughts are interrupted by the sound of shouting coming from below. Concerned, he jumps out of bed and runs down the stairs. John stops mid-step when he sees Sherlock in his dressing gown in the sitting room with… Sally.

“I told you, Sally. Sod off!”

“Okay, your highness! Nevermind that I’m just here to check on you! You know, I don’t believe for a minute that you were drugged! I knew you’d be back at it. I’m surprised you haven’t called _ me _!”

John walks down the rest of the flight of stairs and enters through the front door.

“What’s going on here?” He looks from Sherlock to Sally, “Sally, I think you should leave.”

“Oh, who’s this? Your pet?” Sally sneers. “I’m not leaving until Sherlock asks me to!”

“I think he already has! Anyway, _ I’m _ leaving.” John grabs his keys and storms down the stairs. Once on the street, he looks back to the flat. _ Is it a good idea to leave Sherlock there with Sally? _He pauses for a moment, then continues down the path.

* * *

“Sherlock?” John calls as he walks into the flat later, arms laden with takeaway. There’s no answer. John sits the bags down on the kitchen counter and begins to fill the kettle for tea. He turns the switch and reaches up to get a tea bag out of the cabinet. There, beside the box of Tetley’s is a cigar box that wasn’t there earlier. John opens the box, dismayed, seeing some sort of heroin kit. Presumably Sherlock’s. As if on cue, Sherlock walks into the kitchen.

“John?”

“What the hell are you doing with this?” John shouts angrily, waving the box at him.

“John, I –“ Sherlock looks down at his clasped hands.

“No, Sherlock. I don’t… after all this? After we’ve worked so hard to get you clean? You’re hiding heroin from me!”

“John, Sally brought it today, said she was returning it since I’d obviously be needing it. Despite Jim’s sentence, she’s convinced I wasn’t actually drugged. John, you have to know that I don’t intend to ever use it again.“

“Then why didn’t you throw it away, damnit?! Tell her to shove off?”

“I did!”

“But it’s still here, in your cabinet, Sherlock!”

Sherlock walks over to John, giving him an apologetic look.

“You’re not going to use it? Then get rid of it! Jesus!”

In one swift movement, Sherlock snatches the box out of John’s hand. “I want to keep the box, at least.”

John grabs for the package and Sherlock quickly moves it out of John’s reach. Without a moment’s hesitation, John reaches up to Sherlock’s wrist, deftly twisting him around, holding his arm tightly behind him. Sherlock’s back is now to John as he struggles to get free from the arm lock.

John leans in close to whisper into Sherlock’s ear, “I’m an army doctor, I could break every bone in your body while naming them.” Sherlock stops struggling.

John stills for a moment, holding tight, breathing heavily. Sherlock looks up at the ceiling for a few seconds, then lets out an exasperated sigh.

“You’re right, John. Take it.” He deflates.

John closes his eyes tight and takes a deep breath. When he opens his eyes, Sherlock’s looking back at him, utterly defeated. John releases him, takes the heroin out of the box, and walks into the loo where he promptly flushes it down. He walks back into the kitchen and stands inches away from Sherlock who’s looking ahead at nothing in particular.

“Why did you do it, Sherlock?” John asks softly, his voice on the verge of cracking with anger, “I’ve never understood. You’re brilliant, you’ve got a promising career doing the thing you love, you have friends who care about you. Why did you ever need,” John waves his hand toward the loo, “that poison?”

Sherlock looks John squarely in the eyes, deadpan, “I get bored, John.”

“What the _ hell _is boring about your life?” John raises his voice.

“It’s not always enough. I want more, I need more. I just don’t always know what that is. It’s not that I’m discontent, there’s just always a void. Heroin is - _ was _ \- an escape from the moments when I… when nothing seems enough, when I don’t know what else I need.”

“It’s ok not to know what you want, but --”

“Oh, I know what I want, John,” Sherlock looks back at John with sudden intensity, a ravenous look in his eyes, “I know exactly what I want, right now in this moment.” 

John stares back for what seems like minutes before he looks down, contemplatively. He rubs his hair roughly before licking his lips and muttering, “Sit down.”

“What?” 

John looks back up to Sherlock’s eyes and responds sternly, “Sit. Down.”

Sherlock looks back at the table behind him and sits, looking back up at his friend who is now standing impossibly near. John’s gaze is so close that it shifts back and forth from Sherlock’s left to right eye. He raises both hands to Sherlock’s face, hesitantly at first, then with gumption. He lightly strokes his cheekbones with his thumbs, matching the intensity in Sherlock’s eyes.

“Is this what you want? Right now, is this what you want?” John whispers without giving Sherlock the opportunity to respond. He presses their lips together softly, testing the waters. Suddenly, time is suspended for John and he pauses. He realises this kiss is unlike the previous ones in Amsterdam, which could be explained away by the brain rush of serotonin and oxytocin. Kissing Sherlock here and now is deliberate, this would change everything. His own emotions – anger, tenderness, lust – and actions are taking him by surprise. He momentarily considers pulling away, but John’s body and not his mind takes action. He swiftly wraps his hand around Sherlock’s neck, opening his mouth and gasping in Sherlock’s breath before sliding in his tongue searchingly, shifting the atmosphere from tentative to insistent. At first, Sherlock receives the kiss passively, then, like a light switching on, John’s kiss is reciprocated. Sherlock sucks at John’s lower lip before offering his own tongue in return. Their teeth clash together, their tongues entwined. The world around them fades away.

Sherlock stands and gently pulls a few inches away in order to look John in the eyes. He smirks, but it’s markedly more vulnerable than usual. He moves his hands to John’s lower back, pulling him in closer to press their bodies against each other. John, still holding on to his anger, struggles to regain control and swiftly spins Sherlock around, pressing him up against the wall with a hard thud. He plants a chaste, yet rough kiss on Sherlock’s lips, before he licks along the wet seam. The heat rises in his John’s cheeks as his tongue touches Sherlock’s again; teasingly at first, then firmer, more determined, as if seeking something he could only reach deep within. Their tongues roll against each other, and John swallows a groan of pleasure as he presses deeper.

The kiss is a frenzied and impatient, but also deep and lascivious. When John pulls back to look at Sherlock this time, his expression could be mistaken for a man on the verge of committing murder. Sherlock wonders for a second if John might actually strike him, but a quick deduction -- tight grip, pulse racing, eyes nearly black– tells him that desire, not anger, is the overriding force guiding his friend.

“John, are you sure?” Sherlock asks with a tilt of his head, uncertainty creasing his forehead. It’s almost endearing, but John is too consumed with wanton hunger to smile. 

“Are you?”

“Quite. I just didn’t think -”

“Stop talking,” John says, a bit more forcefully than intended before he reaches up to unbutton the top two buttons of Sherlock’s shirt. He stares consideringly at the long porcelain neck before him. For a moment, Sherlock wonders if John is, indeed, having second thoughts. Then Sherlock feels his hair being pulled roughly, forcing his head back. John greedily imbibes the soft skin with his lips and tongue. A guttural groan escapes Sherlock just as John takes his mouth in his own again.

Moments later, they hear footsteps coming up the stairs to the flat, and they break the kiss, both exhaling raggedly. John presses his head against Sherlock’s shoulder and sighs before he pulls away and hastily walks toward the kettle. Sherlock stands still for a moment, willing his usually sharp mind to catch up to the present situation. He chuckles. John clears his throat and busies himself making tea as Greg walks through the open door.

“Sherlock?”

“Greg,” Sherlock responds.

“I just wanted to talk about the bass solo in the new song we’re working on.”

“The new song _ I’m _ working on. And I never said there’s a bass solo.”

“Alright, the new song _ you’re _ working on. I have an idea. Hear me out.”

“I’m sure it’s very interesting, Greg, but we were just about to have dinner.” Sherlock gestures to the takeaway on the counter.

“Oh, right.” He looks around awkwardly. 

“Actually, Greg,” John chimes in, “I’m not very hungry. You’re welcome to mine - it’s Thai. I’m going to have an early night.”

“Well, if you’re sure?”

John exits the room and calls back as he walks upstairs, “Yep. Fine. See you tomorrow, Greg.”

John plops down on his bed and sighs. He wonders if Sherlock will come looking for him when Greg leaves, and he wonders if he wants him to. He’s overwhelmed and after a moment’s consideration, decides that taking one of Sherlock’s Ativan will allow him to sleep through the night’s anxiety... or disappointment. He takes the pill, washing it down with a glass of water on his bedside table before turning off the lamp.

  


* * *

**Friday, July 17th 1994**

**One day before the American Tour**

_ So Sally Can Wait _

_ She knows it’s too late as we’re walking on by _

  


John sits and watches the band in the studio space. The new song is incredible - it’s austere, yet hopeful, and obviously comes from Sherlock’s personal experience with drugs and getting clean. Sherlock’s singing is heartfelt and full-on, unusual for rehearsals. He and Sherlock have barely spoken today and John wonders if they're just going to pretend like last night never happened, like the massage incident._ I can live with that, _ he thinks, but he’s not sure if that’s what he really wants. This train of thought, however, gets him thinking that today is the last day he’ll see Sherlock in who-knows-how-long. Not just Sherlock, but Greg and Molly too. His heavy heart makes him wonder if skipping out on the American tour and moving to New Zealand is a good move, but it’s a bit late to second guess himself now.

“Well, I’d say that’s a wrap!” Greg exclaims when the new song has finished. “Nice one, Sherlock! I smell a hit. What do you think about the bass?”

“It’s fine.”

“Fine? Jesus. I guess I should take that as a compliment coming from you? Anyway, what do say everyone comes back to mine for a few drinks? It's still early.”

Molly pipes up, “Greg, are you sure? We’ve all got to get up early for our flight tomorrow.”

“It’s 5. We’ll have a few drinks and call it a night, yeah? Nothing too crazy."

* * *

It’s 9 pm, and the original plan for a small gathering has gone out the window. There are no fewer than twenty people at Greg’s smallish Camden flat, but the mood is cheerful and the band’s had enough drink to not to worry about their early flight in the morning.

John is in a quiet mood and has spent most of the evening on the sofa talking to Molly, whose excitement about going to the States can’t be tamed. He gets up to stretch his legs and walks over to the fridge to get another beer.

“Fancy seeing you here!” a woman’s voice calls out.

It’s Sarah, the girl from the first night at Sherlock’s. John thinks back to that night and all that has happened since. Mostly, he’s proud of how far Sherlock has come since the self-inflicted overdose.

“Sarah, nice to see you.”

“You as well. So how was the tour? Do you have a taste for the road now?”

John chuckles, “Oh, it was exciting. Everything you’d expect.”

“Sex, drugs and rock n’ roll?”

“Well, not so much, thankfully. The band were on good behaviour, for the most part.”

“I was talking about you!”

“I was on my best behaviour too.” John laughs.

“Too bad.” Sarah smiles, “Want to go outside.”

“Actually, I… why not? I could use some fresh air.”

“Fresh air? I need a fag.” She giggles.

John follows Sarah down the stairs and onto the pavement. She lights up a cigarette and hands it over to John.

“I don’t actually smoke, that was sort of an excuse to follow you to the roof that night.” John grins ruefully.

“Oh, really? Well, that plan went a bit pear-shaped, didn’t it?”

“You could say that.”

“How is Sherlock doing, by the way? I read about what happened in the paper. Is it true? Is he really clean?”

“Yes, thankfully. I’m hoping there won’t be a repeat of that first night. He’s doing well. I’m proud of him.”

“You two are proper mates now, aren’t you? That’s nice. Sherlock needs someone, you know, someone other than his bandmates.”

John suddenly feels guilty. Sherlock needs him and he’s moving to bloody New Zealand in a couple of weeks. 

“Yeah, well. I guess we’re all sort of mates,” John looks to Sarah’s hand, “Hey, I think I’ll have a drag of that after all.”

Sarah hands John a cigarette and a lighter, “These things will kill you.”

John snickers and turns away from the wind to light the cigarette. That’s when he sees her behind him. Sally is standing feet away, smoking with Anderson.

“Sally!” John shouts, “You've some nerve showing up here! I know what you gave Sherlock yesterday.Can't you just leave him alone?”

Sally takes a few steps over toward John, “Piss off, John. I’m here to see Molly.” She takes a drag of her cigarette then flicks it to the ground before she turns back to Anderson.

“Excuse me, Sarah,” John takes one inhale then stubs the cigarette out on the brick wall, “I’m going back inside.”

“But -”

John is inside and up the stairs before he can hear what Sarah was saying. As he enters the flat, he looks around for Sherlock, eager to warn him of Sally’s presence. He doesn’t see him. He walks over to the drinks table where Molly and Greg are downing a few shots.

“John! Have a shot of sambuca! We’re going to America tomorrow!” Molly beams.

“And I’m happy for you. Don’t mind if I do.” John holds out his hand to accept the shot glass, “Have you seen Sherlock?”

“One, two, three!” Greg shouts and the three of them take their shots of the bitter liqueur.

“Ahhhh!” Greg exclaims, feeling the burn. “He was chatting to Julien a few minutes ago. I don’t know where he’s gone now.”

“Of course. Julien.” John grimaces from the drink or maybe the news, “Sally’s here. She said she’s here to see you, Molly. I just wanted to warn Sherlock.”

“Oh, no! Where is she?” asks Molly, concerned.

“Outside talking to Anderson.”

“I’ll go see if I can get her to leave, shall I?” says Molly, “Oh!” Molly shouts, already a little drunk from wine and sambuca. “After this song! This was my favorite song in primary school! Always a romantic at heart, I guess! Greg, would you do me the honour?”

“Of course, m’lady.”

John watches as his two friends walk to the middle of the room and wrap their arms affectionately around each other. He’s happy for them, he really is, but there’s also something about their happiness that makes his heart sink. He turns around to pour himself another shot of sambuca.

_ I’m not in love _

_ So don’t forget it _

_ It’s just a silly phase I’m going through _

_ And just because I call you up _

_ Don’t get me wrong, don’t think you’ve got it made _

_ I’m not in love, no, no _

_ Let’s me calm _

He looks back to the dance floor, then around for Sherlock. He’s still not in the flat as far as he can see. John walks over to the fridge to grab a beer to rid his mouth of the bitter taste. As he opens the door and peers in, he hears his name and jumps with surprise.

“John?”

He turns around. “Sherlock, Jesus, you scared me! I was just looking for you. Sally’s here. Wait, you weren’t with her, were you?”

“No. I was chatting with Julien on the balcony. Greg said you were looking for me.”

John laughs but doesn’t look amused.

“John -”

“No, no, it’s fine. I’m fine. Go back to Julien. I just wanted to warn you that Sally was hanging about.”

“John, I’m not interested in Julien.”

“So you say, but you’re always -” John is interrupted as he closes the refrigerator door with a loud thud.

“John, the only person I’m interested in here is you.”

John freezes and stares up at Sherlock.

_ I’d like to see you, but then again _

_ That doesn’t mean you mean that much to me _

_ So if I call you _

_ Don’t make a fuss _

_ Don’t tell your friends about the two of us _

_ I’m not in love, no, no, _

_ Let’s me calm _

  


Sherlock reaches out uncertainly and rests one hand on John’s neck, his thumb against his chin. When John closes his eyes and presses into his hand with a sigh, Sherlock is encouraged to lean forward and rest his forehead to John’s. He whispers, “I want to kiss you.”

John’s eyes blink open, “What, here?”

“Problem?” 

“We’re in public.” John’s voice is steady and his eyes are still shut.

“We’re amongst friends, John,” Sherlock breaks the contact of their foreheads and looks over John’s shoulder, spotting Sally, “Well, mostly.”

John hesitates, then reaches forward to cup Sherlock’s face. Their lips come together, hard and rough for an instant, then soft and searching. Sherlock brings his hands down to the nape of John’s neck and they match each other’s pace.

“Oi, look at that! Those idiots are finally doing something about all that sexual tension we’ve had wade through for months.” Greg beams and Molly turns around toward the kitchen.

Sally stands with Anderson, both of them mouths wide open. “I knew it!” She finally exclaims before grabbing her bag and running toward the door.

The kiss turns from tentative and tender to exigent when Sherlock grips John’s waist and pulls in him tightly.

“Let’s go home?” He murmurs.

John exhales, “Okay.”

* * *

After a silent ride home, the two men walk into 221B. John stands awkwardly, resisting the urge to put the kettle on while Sherlock puts on a record. Suddenly, the flat is flooded with Mick Jagger’s smooth voice and John feels a bit more at ease. 

Sherlock walks over to John and reaches out to grab his upper arm, looking at him questioningly. John takes a few heavy breaths, then clashes his mouth into Sherlock’s, moving his hands down to grip his hips. He breathes in the other man’s tongue in one movement and they drink each other in thirstily, nearly forgetting to come up for air. 

“Fuck, Sherlock.” John pants as he takes a much-needed inhale. 

“Patience, John.” Sherlock huffs.

John growls and pulls Sherlock closer, noticing the other man’s erection for the first time. He looks down and then back to Sherlock. 

“Yes, well.” Sherlock looks almost sheepishly at John.

“No, it’s… fine,” John sighs, “Good, even.”

“John,” Sherlock says as he undoes the remaining buttons of his own shirt, “Stop thinking and kiss me.”

John brings his hands up to Sherlock’s lean chest, letting his fingertips gently stroke up and down before he flings off Sherlock’s shirt in one resolute motion. Sherlock groans and brings his hand to the back of John’s neck, pulling him back in for a kiss. 

“Too many clothes,” Sherlock mutters into John’s mouth as he gently pulls John’s layers over his head before leaning in to envelop him. Sherlock brings a hand up to John’s short hair and plants a kiss on his forehead before reuniting their mouths. John’s hands are back on Sherlock’s arse, massaging and pushing their erections together. Sherlock grabs the other man’s cheeks, grinding lightly, creating even more friction. He moans deeply into John’s mouth before whispering, “Just let me make you feel good, John. Do you trust me?”

“Should I?” John tries to smile. Sherlock just kisses him in response, then drops to his knees and begins to undo John’s belt. “Alright?”

John nods in response, and Sherlock slowly unbuttons and unzips before pulling down his jeans. Sherlock caresses John’s solid thighs, then plants soft kisses up and down their length. John tries to control his breathing, but it’s a losing battle. Sherlock looks up at John’s face then closes his eyes before brushing his cheek against the front of John’s pants, exhaling hot breath against his cock.

“Fuck. Sherlock!”

“That’s what we’re doing, John.”

“God. Shut up. _ Shut up! _ Stop talking.” John murmurs.

“John?” Sherlock looks up at him, “Sit down on the sofa.”

John stands still for a few seconds, eyes closed, fists clenched. When he opens them, Sherlock is standing before him, hand extended. He steps out of his trousers and lets himself be led to the sofa.

“Take those off,” Sherlocks demands gently.

“You too.” They look at each other as though daring the other to go first. Sherlock breaks the tension with a passionate kiss, tucking his hands down the waistband of John’s pants to caress his naked arse. He lets go and swiftly removes his own trousers and black boxer briefs, standing fully exposed in front of John. John looks at Sherlock and exhales, “Oh, God.”

“Not quite,” Sherlock responds with a smirk. John grips his waistband, then pauses before he removes his own boxers and sits down. Sherlock kneels in front of him, bringing his mouth up to John’s face first, kissing him slowly and reassuringly. His hands then moves down to John’s thighs, stroking lightly. John hums at the touch, his cock twitching with anticipation. Then, using both hands, Sherlock begins slowly stroking him. John lets out a startled gasp. His eyes close again when he feels Sherlock’s tongue lick from the base to the tip, stopping to tease the head with a circular movement. John reaches out to grasp Sherlock’s curls.

“Fuck. Oh, Fuck!” He lets out a sound that’s somewhere between a moan and a growl and Sherlock purrs in response. The vibrations intensify the pleasure and John looks down at Sherlock on his knees in front of him. “You’re fucking incredible, you know that” he pants.

Sherlock continues his efforts until John feels electric pulses shoot through his body, “I’m going to - oh, god,” he rasps as he grabs roughly Sherlock’s hair with both hands. The orgasm is long and hard and John feels relief like he’s never experienced, years of lone wanking not preparing him for the intense sensation of orgasming from another person’s mouth. When he comes back to the present moment, he realises that he hadn’t had the wherewithal to pull out. He looks down at Sherlock, wiping his lips.

“Oh, shit. I’m --”

“I don’t mind.” Sherlock smiles softly.

John leans forward and pauses for a moment before taking Sherlock’s head in his hands, kissing him tenderly, aware of the unfamiliar taste of his own semen on his tongue. 

“Come up here.” He says softly and moves his back up against the armrest, parting his legs.

“John, you don’t have to, I can --” 

“Just come here,” John says calmly.

Sherlock sits down in front of John on the sofa, leaning back into John’s chest. John brings one hand up to Sherlock’s chest, the other tentatively around his throbbing cock. Sherlock presses his back into John’s chest while John begins to gently stroke. He looks over his shoulder at John who kisses him sloppily in response, lapping at his tongue distractedly. John begins to pump Sherlock’s cock in earnest, and soon, Sherlock, unable to focus, breaks the kiss and lets his head fall back onto John’s shoulder. John leans in to suck on Sherlock’s neck, breathing heavily into his ear. 

“John, I’m-” Sherlock whimpers, “I’m almost there.” John increases his speed and Sherlock’s certain he’ll die right there on the sofa. It feels like drugs shooting through his every vein, igniting a fire in his arms and legs. John slows down as he feels Sherlock’s body spasm. Waves of pleasure take over as he comes hard in John’s hand. When Sherlock becomes aware of his surroundings again, he’s lying back on John whose sticky hands are resting on his thighs.”

“Sorry.” Sherlock murmurs.

“It’s,” John clears his throat, “fine.” 

Sherlock jumps up to get a wet flannel, which he hands to John, then sits awkwardly, unsure whether to reclaim his position or to leave John to himself. 

“Get over here,” John says reassuringly, before bringing their heads together and planting a lingering kiss on Sherlock’s sweaty forehead whilst brushing away a damp lock of hair from his face. 

When Sherlock opens his eyes, John is looking at him softly, but with just a hint of searching.

“John, you’re not going to have another existential crisis, are you?”

“Probably, to be honest, but let’s just sit here for a moment.” Sherlock shifts his limp body to lie back on John, who wraps his arms around him. John, feeling less vulnerable with Sherlock’s gaze diverted, whispers, “You know if you weren’t so… whatever you are - unfairly gorgeous, brilliant - I wouldn’t be having an existential crisis, right?”

Sherlock turns to look at John with a genuine but exhausted smile, “You’re much sexier than you realise, John. My physical response to you should be evidence enough of that.” John chuckles, shaking his head. They stare ahead at the fireplace, John gently stroking Sherlock’s chest.

After a few minutes, John breaks the peaceful silence, “Right, well… I think I need a shower, what do you think?”

“Yes, of course. You go on,” Sherlock scoots forward and jumps up. “I’ll make tea and go after you.” John gets to his feet, reaching for his pants. “You should probably leave the tea to me.” 

* * *

After they’ve each showered, Sherlock sits down beside John on the sofa, steaming mug in hand.

“Sherlock,” John looks serious and determined, “This doesn’t change that I’m not coming to America.”

“I know that.”

“Okay, well, I hope you understand. I need to get my life in order, get my head together. I know you think I crave excitement or danger or whatever, and maybe that’s the case - I don’t know. I need to figure things out, get to know my civilian self again.”

“I think tonight proved that you’re, in the very least, not averse to excitement, John.”

John looks at his mug of tea, “I don’t regret it if that’s what you’re thinking. It’s just, this is not something I’ve ever… given much thought to.” John clears his throat and licks his lips, “I’m not gay,” John turns to look his friend in the eyes. “I know you’re not either, but it’s different for me. I’ve never even been... turned on by another man.”

“John, two people who are attracted to each other had a sexual encounter. It doesn’t mean you’re gay. There_ are _ other options, you know. Some people, like me, are attracted to people regardless of gender - not that I’m attracted to many people, really. You may be primarily attracted to women but have an attraction to a man, you know, it’s _ the exception that proves the existence of the rule _, and all that." Sherlock considers John’s face for a moment, “You know there’s nothing immoral about homosexual sex? You do know that, yes?”

“Of course. Of course I know that,” John says almost defensively. “I’m just not sure it was a good idea to cross that boundary with you. You’re my friend, and I mean that. I don’t want this to change anything between us.”

“It doesn’t change anything, John. It’s fine. And you know how I feel about romantic entanglement, anyway. It’s not what I’m looking for now, maybe never. And nothing has changed, nothing _ bad _ happened.” Sherlock leans back into the sofa, “You know I’m often bored with the mundane, and though I might not project it, I firmly believe we should take any pleasure we can squeeze out of life. Of course, as long as it doesn’t hurt anyone.”

“You’re not wrong,” John contemplates then looks over to Sherlock, “but I hope you’re not referring to drugs.”

“Well, that has been part of it for me, I suppose. But I’ve realized certain drugs not only hurt me, but my… my _ friends _ as well.”

John hesitates a beat, looking down at his feet. “I’m going to take the job in New Zealand.”

“I assumed you would,” Sherlock responds almost too nonchalantly, “I would be lying if I said I won’t ...miss having you around, but I understand. I want you to be happy, John. Do what makes you happy.”

“Thanks. I appreciate it. I wasn’t sure how you’d take it. I’ll worry about you, of course.” He looks over to Sherlock.

“I’m doing well - despite what you found earlier - and much of that’s thanks to you. I’m going to stay clean. Well, you know,” He smiles, “stay away from heroin and Rohypnol at least.”

John looks down to Sherlock’s clasped hands and reaches over to take his left wrist, pulling up the sleeve of his dressing gown to examine the fading marks. “Please, Sherlock, take care of yourself. You don’t need this.” John looks sincerely into Sherlock’s eyes as he traces circles on the track marks dotting his alabaster skin. He lowers Sherlock’s arm and gently says, “let’s go to bed.”

* * *

Sherlock wakes up a few hours later, momentarily anxious that he’s overslept. He rolls over and looks at the clock - 4am. He lies back down and looks over to John, his face inches away. 

The other man’s eyes flutter, and Sherlock watches him for a moment before John blinks his eyes open and rubs his face, “Mmmm? Wha'ssit? ”

“Nothing. Go back to sleep, John.” Sherlock whispers.

Without thinking, John leans in and presses his lips to Sherlock’s. He falters for a moment as though only becoming cognisant of his action mid-kiss. Sherlock returns the kiss softly, and John moves in closer, bringing one hand up to Sherlock’s waist, the other cupping his jaw. The sleepy kiss is soft and delicate, more like their oxytocin-induced kiss back in Amsterdam than the intense snogging that had led to sex. 

Sherlock pulls away, smiling despite his apprehension, hand still on John’s face. “John, I -” 

_ I’m going to miss you? I find you adorable? I wish we could continue like this forever? No, not good _ _ . _

“I thought you weren’t sure about crossing this boundary? Are you sure you want to -” 

“Probably shouldn’t,” John responds, but kisses him again anyway.

John moves his hands to Sherlock’s waist, his hips, then around to lightly rub his fingers over his cock and balls. Sherlock shudders and breaks their kiss. He brings his own hands to John’s hips before speaking, “John?” 

“Let’s not talk, yeah?” John whispers. 

“No, I just,” Sherlock sits up and leans across John to retrieve the lubricant that they had used for the massage a few days before. He pours the liquid into his hand before taking John’s in his, slicking them both. 

Sherlock slowly brings his hand down and wraps his fingers around John’s shaft, gently stroking up and down. John mimics Sherlock’s movements, and soon they’re both stroking at a steady pace, not kissing, but breathing hotly into each other’s mouths.

On the next downstroke, Sherlock places his thumb is on the sensitive head, massaging in a circular motion.

“Oh, fuck!” John groans loudly.

John’s hands go lax for a moment before he takes Sherlock’s cock back in one hand and his balls in the other, squeezing lightly. Sherlock cries out in pleasure and moves his free hand between John’s legs, using his fingertips to apply gentle pressure to his perineum.

John’s parts his legs a bit and Sherlock moves his hands up to his testicles and squeezes gently and releasing before moving two fingertips back to his perineum. John lets out a controlled exhale before nearly shouting, “Oh, God! I’m going to come soon, Sherlock! Fuuuck.”

Sherlock quickens his pace and whispers into John’s ear, “Come for me, John.”

A few strokes later, John is on the precipice, the burning feeling more smouldering than electric this time, but when it hits him, he’s able to luxuriate in the release. His whole body shudders as he continues stroking Sherlock, who follows just moments later. 

Minutes pass, and the room has grown a bit lighter when they both open their eyes again. “That was… good.” John whispers.

“Hmmm,” Sherlock responds as he ducks down to nuzzle under John’s chin, wrapping his arms around his friend’s damp chest and back. John registers the now-familiar scent of Sherlock’s hair as he drifts off to sleep.


	8. Leaving London

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Don’t look back in anger  
I heard you say  
Least not today

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're listening to the accompanying playlist, this chapter begins with This is the Day by The The
> 
> https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0pI0ojpvcjgBj4n7zRwMIF?si=fHG-AuKOQQq5TgYbQn050A

**July 18th, The day they leave for the American Tour**

A couple of hours later, Sherlock awakens to a light knock at the bedroom door, Greg poking his head in.

“Shhh!” Sherlock points to John who lay next to him on his back, lightly snoring.

“Ok, but we’ve got to go!” Greg whispers urgently pointing at his watch exaggeratedly.

Sherlock climbs quietly out of bed and begins to make his way to the door.

“Jesus, put some clothes on mate!” Greg whispers.

“Really, Greg? We were all naked together in a hot tub just a few weeks ago, - now you’re embarrassed?”

“Fair point. But uh...” Greg looks down and clears his throat, and Sherlock’s eyes follow.

“Shut up! Morning wood! Surely even the aged like you experience that sometimes!” 

“Aged? I’m thirty-nine, you git!” Greg laughs, “Anyway, How is it you’re able to “delete” things from your memory, again?” Greg shakes his head, “Nevermind, hurry up! I’ll wait down in the car.”

* * *

The room is cool and empty when John wakes to the sound of rain falling through the open window. He checks his watch - 9 am. He’s got an hour before he has to be at the bedsit for the walk-through and to turn in his keys. He rolls over and rubs his face. _ Jesus. _ He looks up at the ceiling. _ I really just had sex with Sherlock. _ He sighs, _ No time to think about it now, no time for an existential crisis as Sherlock would put it. _ He gets up and walks to the bathroom for a shower.

Twenty minutes later he’s in a cab headed east and there’s nothing to do but think. He thinks back to Sherlock’s words from the night before, that there was nothing wrong with… what they had done. In theory, John believes this, he _knows_ this, but he can’t shrug a strange sense of guilt. Was this true attraction or infatuation? _There’s definitely some infatuation. Sherlock is the most interesting person I’ve ever met, but does it go beyond that?_ _There was desire, unquestionably._ Last night had proven that._ So, I am obviously attracted to Sherlock. Does this mean I’m bisexual?_ John tries to stop his racing thoughts and focus on the morning at hand. He turns his attention to the music playing on the radio. It’s a familiar song from about ten years ago, The band _The The_. John tries to recall other songs by this group, but he can’t. It’s really an uplifting song, but the lyrics are a little confusing. Is it good that this is the day your life will surely change? The song doesn’t have the answer. 

Then, just as his head is clearing of thoughts of his own life, there’s the familiar sound of the piano, the guitar melody, Greg on bass, and that voice.

_ Slip inside the eyes of your mind _

_ Don’t you know you might find _

_ A better place to play _

He sighs. _ The universe is taking the piss. _

_ You said that you’d never been _

_ But all the things that you’ve seen _

_ Slowly fade away _

He realises this is the first time he’s heard the song on the radio and he listens deliberately to the studio version of the song he’s now heard live so many times.

_ So I start a revolution from my bed _

_ Cause you said the brains I had went to my head _

_ Step outside, summertime’s in bloom _

_ Stand up beside the fireplace _

_ Take that look from off your face _

_ You ain’t never going to burn my heart out _

For the second time now listening to _ Don’t Look Back in Anger,_ John feels himself get teary. _ Don’t do this, not now. _Despite himself, he feels his cheeks moisten as he bats his eyes closed and covers his eyes with his hand.

_ And so Sally can wait _

_ She knows it’s too late as we’re walking on by _

_ Her soul slides away _

_ But don’t look back in anger _

_ I heard you say _

“Mate? We’re here.”

John wipes his eyes, blows out a breath and looks up, “Erm, how much?”

***End of Book 1***


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